


Touch

by FenroarGreyfront



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oblivious Eren Yeager, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenroarGreyfront/pseuds/FenroarGreyfront
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"[...] When this is all over. When we take it all back. What do you want?" </p><p>"...I don't know if it's something you could give me."</p><p>A nearly fatally wounded Mikasa is tended to by a guilt-ridden Eren. The task leads to a conversation and chain of events that throws the nature of their relationship into question. </p><p>[Eremika. Canonverse. Eren POV. Eventual Smut.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uncharted Territory

**Author's Note:**

> Set in canonverse, three years in the future, from where we're at in the manga now. So, they're either eighteen or nineteen. The Survey Corps is still on the grind, trying to defeat them pesky titans.

* * *

**TOUCH**

_**I.** **Uncharted Territory** _

* * *

 "It's nothing."

The words come out in a rasped cough, and she licks her chapped lips, half-lidded charcoal blues locking onto distressed emerald greens. She attempts to roll onto her side and rise, but he halts her movements, pressing gently against her shoulder to push her back into the makeshift bed of piled blankets.

"Shut up," he replies with a shake of his head.

She doesn't protest, and he doesn't know whether she's too weak to resist, or if she's not even attempting to because it's _him_.

Whatever the case, she silently complies and stares up at him, and all is still.

Then, another cough pierces the silence and wracks her body, and she hisses in pain at the involuntary jerk, her hand reflexively wandering down to the area above her right hip to brush over the wounded region. He winces at the pathetic sound and sight, as though the pain has hit him secondhand.

Clucking his tongue, he directs his attention to her abdomen, shifting onto his left knee and pulling the loose shirt up to expose her lower torso.

The white wrappings around her lower abdomen that he had just put in place were already staining a deep crimson - _to match the scarf around her neck_ , he morbidly muses.

The sight is unsettling.

He sometimes forgets Mikasa even has the ability to bleed, and her current state is a rude and unwelcome awakening.

To add insult to injury, _he_ is the reason for the disquieting scene before him.

He clenches his jaw, quietly seething, his teeth gnashing together so hard they might break, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut just to cool the rage that threatens to bubble over at the thought.

"Hey."

Her voice is a soft rasp that cuts into his spinning thoughts, and he feels her fingers gently brush at the hair on the back of his head. The simple syllable and touch is enough to pull him out of the dark depths of his own mind.

He tugs the shirt back down to cover the bloodied bandages, turning to find her eyes trained intently on him.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she assures him.

He frowns.

Even now, _she's_ trying to comfort _him_ , and absolve him of well-deserved guilt. For the decade he has known her, such behavior has never ceased to irritate him. But now accustomed to it, he says nothing, instead letting out a disgruntled sigh. He shifts back onto his right knee, scooting closer to her, sitting deeper into his kneel, as her hand drops from his hair, back to her side.

" _Do you need anything?"_ he almost asks, but he's not sure what more aid he can provide. She's already taken the medicine they have available onsite, and her wounds have been treated as necessary.

So he stares at her, at a loss for what else to do, and she stares back, unsuccessfully attempting to mask her labored breathing and exhaustion. Muting a cough by keeping her mouth closed, her hair falls into her eyes, the sight and sound only adding further to his helplessness.

He lifts a hand to brush her bangs from her eyes, and nearly pulls back, when his eyes catch upon the distinct line of smooth, puckered skin below her right eye. It's _the_ scar. The mauve line is a subtle, but permanent fixture on her face, yet he had forgotten until now that it, too, was _his_ doing.

He shudders, pangs of guilt cutting into him for his negligence.

But aside from the scar he had directly given her all those years ago, there was the fresh, deep gash in her abdomen she had obtained upon shielding him - in addition to the nicks and bruises on her hands and arms and legs and back, collected throughout their tenure with the Survey Corps. Were they not all his doing, too? The only reason she had ever received them was because she had voluntarily followed _him_ into this hell.

Now that he thinks of it, every scar on her body bore his name.

All it had taken was a bleeding and half-dead Mikasa to realize it.

' _I'm so sorry…'_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

He begins to trace his thumb lightly over the scar.

Mikasa's eyes widen at the gesture, body tensing at his side, and he wonders why. The scar can't possibly hurt - it's nearly four years old now.

So he continues his ministrations and feels her relax, and feels her eyes still fixed intently on his face.

Another brush of his thumb across the raised flesh, and he begins to understand the subdued bewilderment that has not yet faded from her eyes.

This is uncharted territory.

He _never_ touches her, unless out of necessity.

Shove away, head-butt, carry, bandage, help onto ledge, shield, assist with manual labor, assist mid-combat, spar; these were the only times he bothered to reached out and touch her.

However, she had clung to him outside of such occasions every now and again, hands clutching onto him in bouts of desperation. Back then, he failed to understand why, and had always felt like a small child being coddled and protected by his mother - until the day she'd tearfully thanked him for everything he had done for her. He then understood that her clinging to him had always been an unspoken plea of " _please don't leave me"_.

Yet, historically, he hadn't ever _administered_ such contact to her - to do so would have been uncharacteristic of him. But, if he was completely honest with himself, he had never found receiving such physical contact unwelcome. The tight clasp of her hands on his, whenever she sat at his bedside, and he was battle worn and injured, had become a gentle reminder that there were living beings in existence that could touch you without meaning to kill you. It was a warmth he had always taken for granted, that only Mikasa could supply.

Now, for the second time since he's known her, he is the one at _her_ bedside, and she is an exhausted heap of muscle, sick and bleeding - all on his account. He has nothing more to offer her - there's nothing more to give that will aid her flesh wounds, and offering words of comfort now seems superfluous and unhelpful.

He doesn't even have any alcohol to help numb the pain.

Though it was curiosity that had initially brought his hand to cup her cheek to stroke at the mark he'd left on her, he sees now that he has incidentally taken a page out of her book.

He swallows at the realization, suddenly feeling very self conscious, brow now furrowing in concentration at the movements of his thumb.

He feels completely out of his element.

He is not one for tenderness or needless touching.

His hands were made to bleed and break and kill - not _this._

' _This is stupid,'_ he muses, feeling his face begin to warm.

But then, Eren watches as her weary eyes droop closed, her lips tugging up very subtly at the corners into a small smile.

It doesn't feel so stupid anymore.

She then turns her head in his hand and presses into his touch, and inexplicably, he feels the hairs on his arms raise at the sensation of her velvet soft cheek nuzzling his skin.

No, he is _not at all_ used to this.

His thumb halts, hand lingering, and he feels her shallow breaths against his wrist, and the sensation renders him motionless and unable to do anything but stare at his raven haired companion.

She looks haggard, but peaceful.

And she looks like… a woman.

A normal, human woman - not the mere expert killing machine he had come to regard her over the past few years.

Though he had certainly become more level-headed throughout their journey, his focus on their mission had narrowed even more with time - so much that he had begun to view the girl that had always stood by his side as a critical weapon to be used to further his cause. He hadn't even realized how detached he'd become until he saw her smile, and _felt_ her breathing.

And now, too, her porcelain skin is incredibly soft and warm on his calloused palm, and the scar beneath his thumb seems to spell out his name, and blood is flowing from the fresh wound on her seemingly machine-made abdomen, colored and sullied with _his_ purpose, vibrant like the scarf he had given her what seems like an eternity ago, and his stomach turns because, for all her steel, and strength, and stoicism, it's all a reminder that Mikasa Ackerman is, in fact, _human_.

Even _her_ flesh could tear.

Even _she_ could die - and she would willingly.

For _him_.

The guilt stirs in his stomach again.

' _This was not the life you wanted.'_

It's not the life she deserved, either.

He knew she had wanted to stay within the walls and live a peaceful life, but out of her warped sense of obligation to him, she had given it all up just to repay a debt he had never bestowed upon her.

And it all circled back to that obvious truth once more - Mikasa was only here because of him.

Mikasa had almost _died_ , yet again, because of him.

"I'm sorry," he finally blurts in a whisper, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat.

Her eyes remain closed, and he hopes she is sleeping.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she finally whispers into his wrist.

He frowns.

She was always so quick to absolve him of guilt in matters involving herself. She was unforgiving when it came to all else, but he could probably wring her throat with his own hands, and she _still_ wouldn't fault him for it.

"Stop that," he whispers sharply, temper spiking briefly from his dark thought process.

"What?" she asks, eyes fluttering open.

He gently pulls his hand away from her face and back onto his lap and looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head, taking a breath to calm his nerves. He gives pause before speaking, and he can feel her eyes on him.

"Why do you follow me?" he asks the ceiling.

It's a stupid question. Not only is it nine years too late, but it has already been answered time and time again, both through words and action.

"You know why," she says, reminding him of such facts, and he looks back down to find her clutching the scarf around her neck.

He sighs.

"Alright, I know… " he says, reaching over to give the scarf a light tug, hand resting upon her collarbone. "… but I never asked you to _die_ for me."

"I know."

"I'm not weak anymore, Mikasa - not like I used to be. You don't have to keep going out on a limb like that for me."

"Better safe than sorry," she says and his frustration increases, because there she goes again, reminding him that his life matters more than hers, in her own subtle way.

"Humanity needs you too," he replies, struggling not to turn the conversation into a lecture.

"I know. But _you're_ irreplaceable. At least there's still Levi if something ever happens to me-"

" _Hey_ , you're irreplaceable, too. Come on, we'd be completely fucked without you," he insists, and Mikasa allows herself a small smile, and it's contagious because Eren has to fight the one that threatens to spread on his face at the sight. "It's _true,_ " he says with a shrug.

Brow arched in amusement, Mikasa opens her mouth to reply, but instead a single cough takes over - which then turns into a coughing fit, her face twisting in pain as she presses a hand over her wound, and now the hard truth of the lighthearted statement shakes him to his core.

To have lost her today would have been a major setback to the Survey Corps - and not only for the fact that they would have lost one of humanity's best soldiers.

In truth, Eren doesn't know what _he_ would have done, had she died.

He tries to imagine carrying on without her, but it is literally impossible. Not only was she a pivotal component of his cause, combat and strategy-wise, but she was an integral part of his future.

And he _owes_ her. Her current pathetic state is the result of her devotion to him and his cause. Yes, he had saved her life the day they met, but she has already repaid the debt a hundredfold - with every scar etched into her body, every drop of blood shed on his account. And now his debt grew with every pain and every wound she'd sustain from now until the end of their journey.

And to think - what if he never got to repay her? What if they had not reached her in time - what if the wound had been too deep to heal?

He feels nauseous at the thought, and makes a silent vow to ensure he never has to even think of such questions again.

When her coughing fit is through, and she slumps her head back onto his folded cape, drawing in a ragged breath, he leans forward and gently places a hand over hers - over where the gash is. He gives her hand a light squeeze, green eyes, overcome with emotion from his internal train of thought, meeting tired and perplexed grey.

Her gaze is just as bewildered as before, but when he does not break the eye contact, she turns her hand, wrapping her small fingers around his palm, giving it her own squeeze.

So _this_ was how this felt - being the one to worry, and plea, and watch the other suffer.

He owes her for all the times he has put her through this, too.

Eren gently pulls his hand from her clasp to shift his position next to her.

"What do you want?" he asks. "When this is all over. When we take it all back. What do you want?"

She seems beat from the coughing fit, but is nevertheless nonplussed at the question and sudden change in topic.

"I don't know," she answers far too quickly.

He knows her well enough to catch her bluff, and can even sense that there is a concealed answer lying on the tip of her tongue.

"There's nothing you want when it's over?"

"I don't… I don't know," she says shakily. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," he says with a shrug. "Whatever it is… I'll give it to you. I'll make it happen."

Her exhausted eyes widen slightly and now it's her turn to look up at the ceiling.

"Why?" she questions, voice small and… slightly panicked?

"You know why," he throws back at her, wondering why she is reacting in such a way to such a simple and innocent question.

"You don't owe me anything. I'm the one that -"

"Just answer the question," he says, careful not to snap, and wishing to avoid another spiel of how indebted to him she was. "There must be something."

Everyone had something they were looking forward to after the titans.

It was no secret that he wanted to travel and see the world and the ocean, and then go home and rebuild Shinganshina with she and Armin.

"I really don't know," she says again, refusing to look back at him.

"You're lying."

She doesn't reply, eyes closing.

He is about to ask again, when she speaks, eyes opening to the ceiling.

"I don't know if it's something you could give me."

Her bashfulness has disappeared, the words coming out somewhat wistful.

"I could try," he replies, curiosity now piqued at the distinct change in tone.

The silence drags on, and her expression turns even more contemplative. He figures she's trying to come up with an answer, until she finally says:

"I can't tell you."

He was not expecting _that_.

"Sure you can," he says, brow arching inquisitively.

"No," she shoots back through a cough, covering her mouth with her elbow, "I can't," she finishes, laying her arm at her side.

" _Hey_ ," he says curtly, leaning over and catching her chin between his thumb and index finger, turning her head slightly so she is forced to face him. "Don't be difficult. I'm trying to be nice."

Her calm turns into that now very familiar puzzlement he's been seeing quite a bit of today, a gentle pink blush now invading the sick pallor her face had assumed. He raises an eyebrow at the response, but then realizes it must be the whole touching thing again. He has taken to it a little too easily for his own liking.

But then, with each passing moment, the surprise on her face melts into that rare gaze he has seen a few times prior, so incredibly wrought with restrained emotion. He has acknowledged, over the years, that the significant departure from her usually stoic demeanor seems to be reserved solely for him.

She opens her mouth to speak, closes it again. He releases her chin, but remains close, patiently awaiting her response.

"I just…" she starts, eyes flicking elsewhere momentarily before meeting his again.

"... I just want to be with you."

She falls silent, eyes searching his.

He blinks back, waiting for her to say more.

She does not.

She only stares back up at him, as though expecting him to speak.

So he does.

"That's it?"

His tone is more unimpressed than he intends for it to be.

Her face falls in response, and she looks up at the ceiling.

"I mean, I want to be with you too," he continues, in a matter-of factly way. "Of course we'll be together after all this. Me, you, and Armin will go back and rebuild Shiganshina together."

The additional information does nothing, as she remains silent and nods, her face back to its default calm expression.

"But… that's it? There's nothing else?" he presses, very quickly gaining the sense that he has upset her with his response.

He doesn't understand what the big deal is, and why she was so reluctant to tell him. It wasn't like it was _bad_. Her answer was simple, and honest, and he shared the sentiment deeply.

But their togetherness was already something guaranteed, if they all in fact made it out alive. It was the default ending he had promised - them and Armin, living peacefully and free to do whatever they wanted, and go wherever they wanted.

"Eren… I'm kind of tired," she rasps, voice cutting into his train of thought.

He suddenly remembers she has a nasty wound and a cold, and feels guilty for further dampening her mood.

"You wanna sleep now?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," she nods, continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"Okay," he nods.

"Thanks," she replies, and he moves to stand, but the nagging feeling at the back of his head glues him in place.

"Hey… I didn't mean to upset you. What you said wasn't a bad answer - I want that too. You know that," Eren says, and he is not used to having to be this gentle with… _anyone_. In fact, he can't remember a time he'd _ever_ had talk to someone in such a way.

In _fact_ , he rarely ever struck up conversation like this. For Mikasa, he had gone out of his way to do a whole slew of things he would normally never do for others. He truly was trying to be nice - trying to make lighthearted and hopeful conversation.

And from her persisting silence and lack of eye contact, it had backfired.

He wonders if perhaps he should just stay in his loud, argumentative lane in the future.

"I know," she replies with a nod at the ceiling, yet it is weak and he _knows_ she's holding _something_ back.

He sighs, irritation growing as he unsuccessfully wracks his brain as to why she is acting this way.

" _Hey_ ," he grumbles, reaching over to grab her chin as he had before, tilting her head so she is forced to face him, once more. She is relatively expressionless as she usually is, but given that glossy-eyed gaze she had given him just moments ago, he finds it discomfiting and… _aggravating_ as hell.

_What_ was her problem?

"What's wrong?" he asks as gently as he can, exercising considerable restraint to mask his exasperation, and trying hard to control his temper.

She stares back, calm and unflinching, and it only further adds to his frustration.

But he refuses to back down and walk away, because he knows he is right - she is, indeed, hiding something.

So it becomes a staring game, and he can feel his face twisting further in concentration with each passing moment.

"Do you really want to know what I want?" she finally asks, breaking the silence. Though she is sick and wounded, there is a confident edge and challenge in her voice.

_But_ he has won - and acknowledges that his reflex is to go on the offensive at so much as the _suggestion_ of a challenge. But then he reminds himself it is an injured Mikasa he is talking to, and possibly upsetting, and forces his temper back down.

So he merely nods, not sure what to expect, as her eyes are now displaying an impatience he is not used to receiving from her.

"Fine," she says.

Then she shifts, palms pressing against the floor, pushing her upper body to rise.

"Hey - _hey_ , what're you doing? You don't have to… "

He's not sure what he has started, but she is ignoring him, determined to sit upright. He presses his right hand to her upper back to help her sit up, now feeling stupid for taking things so far.

"You shouldn't be moving," he says. "The wound is still fresh."

With his aid, she is upright. She shifts to get comfortable, then turns her head to look at him, charcoal blues hard and determined.

"Come on. Look, I'm sorry, this whole thing is dumb, alright? Just - you shouldn't be sitting up like this, it's gonna put pressure on the wound - just lie down."

Eren places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it, so as to pull her back down onto the mat.

But Mikasa resists the pressure on her shoulder, and places a hand on his shirt, pulling at the area right below his chest. Her fingers curl into a fist, balling the fabric in her hand, her eyes remaining downcast, and she pulls him forward with a gentle tug. He lets himself be pulled, curious as to what is occurring, and their foreheads bump lightly.

Then she just leans on him, eyes closed.

He blinks into raven bangs, awaiting explanation.

A few moments pass, and none comes.

He figures that perhaps she's in pain from sitting up, or has even possibly fallen asleep on him.

"Mikasa," he says her name softly, squeezing her shoulder again, and there is finally movement. She tilts her head up, eyes closed, and their noses bump. He blinks as her nose slides against his, and he does not register what is happening until she closes the space between them completely and presses her lips to his.

And he freezes.

And he doesn't know what to do.

But shortly thereafter, he can no longer think, because his brain is only capable of focusing on her warmth, and the feel of her lips, which are soft, yet frosted and slightly chapped. When they push lightly against his, he finds his eyes sliding shut of their own volition, head tilting to mould better to her form and press back _of its own volition_ \- but then she pulls back, forehead still pressed to his. He feels her warm breath on his mouth, and he is in a lightheaded daze and wants to follow the warm air back to its source and _just_...

He feels her fisted hand tug at his shirt, feels her head turn so that their noses bump again, and she is so, _so_ close and it's… _nice_?

When she drops her hand from his shirt, his brain slowly catches up to the rest of his body, and he is suddenly aware that his heart is beating inexplicably fast because _Mikasa just kissed him_.

His eyes open wide, and he finds himself staring down at the bridge of her nose, and he doesn't know what possesses him to, but he leans forward once more - only to have her move back completely.

His hand slides off of her shoulder as she sits back and puts _too much_ space between them, and as baffled as he is about what has just occurred, he is immediately disappointed at the loss of warmth.

And then he stares at Mikasa, who is staring at the floor, cheeks flushed again.

"I want to _be_ with you," she repeats.

The inflection is different now, and her charcoal blues flick to baffled greens before resuming their observation of the floor.

' _Oh,'_ he thinks.

It's all he can process.

"I want a house, and… and _children_ with you. I want a _life_ , with _you_ ," she continues, voice shaking as she confesses to the floor, and he doesn't know what to think. "Of course I want to go back and rebuild Shiganshina with Armin too, but that's… secondary. All I really want after this is all over is just…"

She looks up at him, eyes shining with emotion, and the sight renders him even more speechless.

"I want _you_."

_'OH.'_

Silence.

She holds his gaze.

He wonders what he must look like.

He can feel his own eyes are wide, only now registering the loud drumming of his heart in his ears, and he is filled with a kind of panic he has never felt before. He can only liken the feeling to the brief paralysis that occurs on the battlefield when one spots an aberrant titan breaking into a full sprint in one's direction - a situation in which he would have been titan food long ago, if relying on his current reflexes.

The silence beyond the booming thud of his heart in his ears is quickly becoming suffocating, and he feels dread as he watches the controlled hope in her eyes falter.

He swallows, parts his lips to speak, but no words come out.

Because he has nothing to say, because he can't _think_ of what to say.

Another beat, and she finally looks away. He feels something in his stomach twist unpleasantly, unable to help the feeling that he's just done something very stupid.

"And I know that's obviously a lot to ask for, and… something you might not be able to give me, so…"

She moves to lie down again, pressing her palms to the ground to aid her descent, and he reflexively steadies a hand on her upper back to help her, but even _touching_ her now is a different experience, and he feels relief when he pulls his hand back onto his lap.

"... so I'll… I can think of a different answer," she says, staring at the ceiling. "Okay?"

Her eyes meet his briefly, and he flinches involuntarily at the eye contact, and nods.

It doesn't go unnoticed by her, because she averts her gaze once more, this time unable to mask the hurt that she momentarily lets flash across her face.

Guilt has successfully consumed him whole, and he hates it because this was _not_ how this was supposed to go down, but he _doesn't know what to say._

"Uh… yeah," he replies dumbly, barely registering the words coming out of his mouth. He says it just to say something, _anything_ to fill the stifling silence, because he has been mute this whole time.

Staring down at his knees and inwardly cursing himself , he scratches the back of his head, eyes wandering back to the region of her wound.

His guilt only deepens.

So much for repaying her.

"Do you need anything?" he asks without looking at her face.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to change the bandages?"

"No."

"Last I checked, they were getting -"

"I'm fine, Eren," she says softly, and she doesn't even sound _angry_ and it makes him feel worse.

He chances a look at her face, afraid of what he will see.

Her eyes are closed, face calm, and he is relieved, though he knows in his heart of hearts that it is a facade.

"I'm tired," she says quietly, and he knows it's just to get him out of the room. "I wanna sleep a bit before we move out."

"Okay," he says feeling terrible that he is relieved that she has given him an escape route. "I'll let you rest."

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

He reaches out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, but stops short before he can make contact.

He decides it's best not to touch her.

So he leaves.

As the door clicks shut behind him, he regrets doing so immediately.


	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eren is forced to reflect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the final part, as this fic has turned into a four part beast. Womp?

 

* * *

  **TOUCH**

_**II. Guilt** _

* * *

**_1._ **

_His eyes open wide_ , and he finds himself staring down at the bridge of her nose, and he doesn’t know what possesses him to, but he leans forward once more - only to have her move back completely -

\- _try_ to move back completely.

His body quickly acts on its own, hands latching onto her shoulders like a vice, and she jumps at the sudden movement, eyes widening.

Then he holds her still, and he can feel himself shaking - feel a storm beginning to brew within him as he grips her tightly, and perhaps even hard enough to bruise. But if he is, she is not showing any pain, but rather, stunned confusion.

“Why did you do that?” he whispers hoarsely, and it is equal parts a question, a statement, and a warning shot.

Mikasa blinks at him, mouth dropping open…

… mouth shutting, closed.

Silence.

He lets it fill the space between them - lets it fill the seconds that tick by slowly, as he commits to memory the porcelain cheeks that are flushed rose-pink, reading like frazzled naivete and innocence - and the wide, doe-like charcoal blues, that seem to scream _I don’t know but_ _I know I actually know but I don’t know._

How _cute_.

Yet nothing about this moment or the magnetic pull he feels towards her could be labeled with a word as light as _cute_. No, not when she was slowly burning him from the inside, making his blood thrum fast beneath his skin, making his heart thud hard against his ribcage, heightening his senses to the sound of her breathing - making him feel like a hunter closing in on his prey.  

“Hmm?” he hums in askance, leaning forward so that the tips of their noses brush, and he _swears_ the low note has reverberated between them and touched her, and is responsible for the shudder that he feels creep through her body. He feels her muscles tighten within his grip as he shifts his gaze downwards, eyes affixed to her pretty, pink lips, and he admires how they look as they part once more to breathe his air and attempt to give an answer - admires how they look as they close in defeat.  

Silence.

Now she is an immobile statue in his grasp, tense all over, and he wonders if perhaps he is going too far.

_‘She started it_.’

He holds her stunned gaze, sliding his right hand up the firm slope of her shoulder, calloused touch grazing hot, smooth skin, and trailing up the back of her neck, the motion of his hand incredibly languid and _cruel_. Her eyes droop, and she visibly quivers under his touch, hot breath warming his mouth through shaky exhales as her breathing labours.

He drinks in the sight of her, committing _this_ face to memory, because her dazed, yielding expression and the glimmer of something impure in her grey blues are all _his_ doing.

He sucks in a breath, and nestles his hand in her silk raven locks, and presses his forehead to hers, fisting his fingers loosely in her hair. And he closes his eyes. And he relishes the feel of her warm air on his mouth, the way her nose brushes his, and she is so, _so_ close, and it is so, _so_ nice, and he wants _more_.

So he pulls her in, and he _takes_ more.

And he kisses her.

And then it’s like a dam has broken, and there is a sense of _finally_ , _for fuck’s sake FINALLY,_ even though he wasn’t ever aware that he’d eagerly been awaiting this moment - and that is just the word that colors him and the way his mouth molds to hers, and the way his body reacts to hers: _eager_. 

Greedily - _eagerly_ \- he presses into the soft warmth of her lips, his other hand sliding down her shoulder to press against the small of her back to draw her in closer, closer, _closer_ , lest she _dare_ try to pull away again. But there is no danger of separation this time, because her shoulders and limbs slacken, and she melts into his possessive embrace, surrendering completely to him.

But it’s only a brief charade of submission, because just as soon as she gives in, _she_ is the one deepening the kiss and sucking at his bottom lip, and sliding a hand up his chest. It all begins to feel like some strange form of retaliation, as though she is fighting to reclaim control of the situation. And, while he is normally the confrontational type to stubbornly fight to victory, Eren finds the counterattack completely welcome, and immediately accepts defeat at the feel of her hot tongue sliding along his, the tug of her teeth at his bottom lip, and the desperate pull of her fists in his shirt and his hair. And now, humanity’s christened salvation and his keeper are nothing but labored breathing and the rustle and shift of clothing beneath restless hands, and wet, sloppy kisses that rapidly increase in number and desperation.

And for once, humanity’s hope has become the _prey_ , the hunt _ed_ , and _gladly_ so; in fact, he is the happiest prey in the world when he feels her hand sidle up his inner thigh, jaw going slack in dumb surprise and subdued excitement, effectively halting the fervent liplock. He is left motionless, breathing hard against her mouth, the ache in his groin worsening at the pressure of her hand _just_ there. Then, Mikasa presses a chaste kiss to his parted lips before opening her eyes to shift her gaze to his lap, hand roving up and down his thigh _slowly_ with criminal intent, and he has to wonder if this is payback for earlier.

Eren feels his face flush at too many things - at her boldness, at her hands’ movements, and at how _exposed_ he feels, because how badly he wants her is becoming _visibly_ evident.  

When Mikasa looks back up at him through half lidded charcoal blues, he expects amusement at the observation, and perhaps some bewildered bashfulness. Instead, her eyes are dim with a hunger he has never seen before, and it makes his stomach _burn_ with want.

He swallows hard when she crawls onto his lap and straddles him, closing her arms around the back of his neck, eyes locked on his.

Then, for a moment, they are still.

And she doesn’t kiss him.

And he doesn’t kiss her.

He is too entranced to move or think for himself, too deeply under her spell, a slave to her every move, waiting in eager anticipation of what she will do next, or what face she will make next.

He finds it fascinating that she is now calm Mikasa, eyes dark with focus, face flushed, lips swollen, yet not one ounce of embarrassment evident on her face. Was this not the same girl that had looked like a deer about to get shot just moments ago?

Yes, just a moment ago, _he_ had been in control, and she could not even _move_ when -

_‘wHENwhenwhenwHEhehen...’_  

He gasps sharply, completely forgetting who and why and what he is, train of thought riding merrily right off the tracks when he feels her warm, clothed crotch slide up against his growing length. He sinks even deeper into the void as she continues to stir her hips, rubbing her heat against his, their hot breaths mingling, stuck in a shared half-lidded gaze, and he is _drunk_ on her, on those hypnotizing charcoal blues, and he is fading fast.

“What do you want?” he breathes out against her mouth before he even realizes he is talking, each word dripping with salacious intonation, both hands absent mindedly moving in circles on the small of her back.

She brushes the tip of her nose against his, and stops stirring her hips - and he is all at once grateful and disappointed. She holds his gaze, snaking a hand around her back to latch onto his wrist. She then guides his hand to her clothed abdomen, pressing his palm firmly there over where the wound should be. He can feel the dips of her muscled core with how tightly her hand is pressed to his, and when he tries to look down, Mikasa pulls him up by the hair to keep his eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you really want to know what I want?” she whispers, close enough that her lips nearly brush his with every word.

“Yeah,” he breathes huskily, flicking a glance at her mouth before meeting her heavy, half-lidded gaze once more. 

She moves his wrist, sliding his palm up her body languidly, _torturously_ , charcoal blues never breaking from what must be ravenous emerald greens, and her shirt hitches under his hand, dragging it upward so that the bottom of his palm is grazing her hot, soft skin with each heavenly, firm inch felt up her body. As she guides his hand up, she continues to roll her hips against the strain in his pants, and his teeth grind in rapidly weakening restraint as he feels the muscled, yet feminine, slope of her torso beneath fingers that fight not to curl and grasp as they reach her chest.

Never once breaking eye contact, she slides his hand over her breast, her hand cupping his so that his fingers involuntarily curl to the soft mound’s shape. He then registers the feel of the firm nub poking into the center of his palm, and that is when he _snaps,_ all self-control out the window. He hisses sharply before he all but lunges forward for a kiss - but she leans back, just enough to miss him, and just enough to remain hovering tantalizingly close to his mouth.

And just like that, he is hers.

He is completely and utterly hers, and he is awash with desperation and want all because of this fucking tease that now _owns_ him, and gods his crotch is aching, and it all only worsens when she leans in, leans past him, sliding her soft, warm cheek against his.

“I want you…”

She trails off and breathes into his ear, and it’s not a complete sentence, but he finds himself not caring when her teeth gently graze at his earlobe. He sucks in a breath at the feel of her tongue swirling around the surprisingly sensitive area, and the hand she has pressed to his over her breast pushes down, encouraging movement, and he gladly obliges, thumb circling over and flicking at the clothed nipple. He feels her gasp and moan into his ear at the action and it drives him _fucking crazy,_ hips involuntarily bucking against her heat as he chomps down on his bottom lip to exercise restraint that now just _barely_ exists.

Then she is at his ear again, and what she says sends him overboard.

“I want you to _touch_ me.”

 

* * *

He wakes with a start, bolting upright, chest heaving. 

The next thing to register - other than the tent in his pants, and the flood of unsavory thoughts his mind cruelly and vividly has conjured - is the overwhelming feeling of _shame_.

His face burns hot, and he presses his palms against his forehead, hands gripping his own hair.

“What the fuck? What the _FUCK?!_ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath, palms sliding down to cover his face.

He closes his eyes to regain his composure, but doing so only calls to mind the image of his palm sliding up Mikasa’s torso, guided by her own hand as her hips wriggle into his -

He opens his eyes again, hands gripping his hair once more, teeth grit.  

_Guilt._

He is awash with guilt.

And _want_.

A lot of _unwanted_ want.

And _guilt_.

The dream had been borne of the simple, chaste kiss she had pressed to his mouth just hours ago. He curses himself for the fact that such an innocent action had spiraled and breathed life into a lecherous and disturbingly detailed fantasy.

Further contributing to his self-loathing was how he had handled the said kiss that had spurred such thoughts. He had only responded with silence that, to her ears, had probably sounded like a rejection. 

_Yet_ , here he was, dreaming of kissing her - and about to do _far more_ than kiss her.

He was an asshole.

A true, certified, asshole. 

Yet _again_ , he was using her.

Her body was already his weapon, his sword and shield. And overnight, it had become an object for a sexual fantasy.

“Fucking, _fuck,_ ” he curses, shame swallowing him whole. “Fuck _you_ , Eren,” he whispers into his palms. 

The _guilt_.

He falls back onto his mat with a grunt, covering his eyes with his forearm.

Guilt, and the fear of an even more graphic continuation to his dream, prevent him from falling back asleep.

 

* * *

He is a walking corpse the next day.

While his first reflex had been to find Mikasa to help carry her out, he had decided against it, as his current state of delirium made anything possible. Upon seeing her, he could very well let slip that he’d had a vivid and unchaste dream of her - and a loose-lipped and random _“I DON’T KNOW I’M SORRY”_ in regards to their conversation wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility, either.  

So, he decides it is best to walk off the delirium and busy himself with other duties, and avoid her for now.

And, as as he mindlessly turns, picks up maneuver gear, shoves it onto the wagon before him, wash, rinse, repeat, he decides that it is a good idea because _this_ task requires absolutely no thinking, and induces absolutely no awkwardness - both of which he’d had far too much of in the past twenty-four hours.

Finally, he heaves the last supply crate onto the wagon, and stands straight, pressing his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

He stretches his arms out, and turns to find Armin staring at him curiously.

“What?” Eren rasps crankily. The lack of sleep has apparently aged him back to the cadet with a short fuse, of several years past. 

The blond arches an eyebrow at him, azures genuinely confused.

“... Sasha and Jean brought Mikasa out already, if you were wondering.”

The _guilt_.

It floods back through him, mild panic filling him by way of Armin’s suffocatingly discerning gaze, and it is all very dizzying, because he can _feel_ his best friend attempting to deconstruct his thoughts.

So much for _not_ thinking, and _no_ awkwardness, because, even in his stupor, Eren knows he must come up with a well-crafted reply to fend Armin off, quickly. And conjuring a reply now is a particularly delicate matter, because he couldn’t very well tell the truth and admit that he was avoiding Mikasa.

Because Armin would ask why. And then he’d be forced to recount the strange and intimate conversation he’d had with her the night before, which had forced him to reassess his feelings for her - thus resulting in the need to avoid her like the plague until he sorted his thoughts.

_And_ , there was also the matter of the almost-sex dream - which he now decides he will take to the grave.

He knows the hourglass is winding down when Armin’s eyes narrow, probing gaze only growing more confused with each passing second, and he knows he must answer _now_ , right this very minute before his suspicion grows even further, so, Eren replies with a:

“Cool.”

The way Armin’s eyebrow shoots up inquisitively in response tells Eren that his carefully chosen reply has backfired. 

Even in his half conscious state, he can tell that it is now painfully evident that _something_ has happened.

He curses inwardly at his own stupidity.

“I mean, thanks,” Eren follows up his cold and somewhat boneheaded reply, running a hand through his hair, tearing his eyes from Armin’s before he can give anything else away through his apparently very telling facial expressions. “I - I didn’t wake up in time. But, I’ll go see her. Now.”

He turns on his heel quickly, feeling Armin’s calculating azures bore holes into the back of his head.

And, a few steps into his not so clever escape, Eren realizes that he has prematurely been forced to face Mikasa. He curses inwardly, hoping he is at least slightly in his right mind - enough to speak actual words to her, and not imagine _things_ in her presence. 

He breathes deeply, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation, before he comes across Jean and Sasha, who are already mounted on their horses next to the cart that Mikasa was likely lying in.  

“ _There_ he is. Took you long enough,” Jean says in his usual snippy way, and Eren’s temper instantly peaks. He is about to let fly a few expletives and crude ways of telling him to mind his own business, until his horse-faced comrade says, “Way to make Mikasa wait.”

The words jar him and knock him down several pegs.

He freezes in place, guilt outweighing the desire to give Jean a piece of his mind.

He elects to turn to the cart and ignore him, eyes falling upon what must be Mikasa’s motionless figure. She is lying down, using a cape for a blanket - which he registers must be Jean’s, as he is not wearing one.

The deduction fills him with an unfamiliar, and unwelcome sense of unease, but before the feeling can overwhelm and shift his focus elsewhere, he clears his throat and knocks on the cart gently. 

“Hi,” he says softly. 

He watches her figure shift beneath the cape, and she slowly lifts her head, pressing her elbows into the wagon for leverage, and he is afraid of what he will see when her face finally comes into view. 

Disappointment? Sadness? Anger?

“Hi,” Mikasa rasps, as she sits half up.

When her face is finally in full view, he sees that she appears to be her normal, Mikasa self - calm, relatively expressionless. But upon closer inspection, she seems perhaps even more worse for wear than yesterday, the dark circles under her eyes mirroring his.

He wonders if it’s due to restlessness from the injury, or if _he_ has anything to do with it - though he’s almost certain that she didn’t have to grapple with his very particular issue.

He leans forward onto the wagon with both hands, willing away the image of the raven haired minx that threatened to creep back into his mind at the mere fact of her actual presence. It makes him sick to his stomach that such thoughts even arose in front of the injured woman before him.

“How do you feel?” he asks before meeting her eyes again.

“Better,” she nods.

 She is clearly lying.

“Good,” he nods back.

He scratches at the back of his head, studying the wood grain on the wagon.

And then he remembers - her bandages.

That was his duty - to change her bandages. 

But that meant _touching_ her.

“Uh, your - how about your bandages? Do you-”

“Sasha changed them this morning.”

“Oh.”

Thank _gods_ oh thank gods. There was no way in hell he would be able to view her bare abdomen in the same light ever again, much less touch it.  

“Good,” he replies, looking back up.

When he does, his relief sours into that gripping guilt, because there is a slight frown on her mouth, a clearly doleful expression on her face, and she is not looking at him either. The observation is enough to tell him that what had gone down between them the night before was still fresh in her mind, too, and was responsible for her currently haggard and sleep-deprived state.

He frowns, the ache of guilt spreading through him once more.

But there was nothing he could do about it now - not in front of Sasha and Jean. And, he was in no position to supply her with an honest and well thought out follow up to their conversation, either.

Before his thoughts can spin out more, he awkwardly smacks at the wagon with one hand, breaking the silence, and she reflexively lifts her head at the sound. 

“Well. I’ll see you when we get back,” he says, giving her a formal and curt nod, and he stifles a wince at the robotic and cold formality he has just addressed her with. He looks away, feeling like even more of an asshole.

“Okay,” he hears her reply softly, and the sound rips at his heartstrings because she sounds so _defeated_.

“Bye,” he flicks his gaze to, and away, from her, unable to withstand the jumble of emotions her presence is stirring within him. 

“Bye,” he hears her reply in that small, tired voice.

He chances a look at her face once more and nods, and for a moment, he sees those charcoal blues flash with hurt, her face fighting hard to conceal it all, and, oh, the _guilt_.  

He turns away quickly, not wishing to linger and contribute more to the suffocating silence and awkwardness. On his way out, he exchanges glances with Sasha and Jean, hoping the conversation did not come off as strange. But, from the puzzlement on their faces, and the eye contact they make with one another before passing arguably judgemental stares down at him, they are definitely onto _something_.

What that something was, Eren wasn’t even sure of himself.

 

* * *

He worries about her.

So he asks about her. 

And he checks on her when he knows she is sleeping.

But he wants so badly to _see_ her, and to talk to her.

But he also doesn’t - firstly, because there is a strange wall in his mind blocking him from mulling over the topic she had so bravely broached two days ago, now.

_Secondly,_ the imagery of her hands gripping his hair, and her mouth hungrily sucking and tugging at his, is still fresh in his mind.

He has worked to eliminate at least the latter problem by reducing the likelihood of such dreams. To do so, he has fought to stay awake for as many hours as possible, and has thus far done so with great success, as the slivers of sleep that he has caught over the past forty-eight hours have been filled only with a simple, beautiful and dreamless pitch black.

As for the _other_ problem, he has taken to delaying all thought of their conversation. Part of him hopes that he’ll never have to bring up the topic, and that with a little time, they will both forget about the conversation, and move forward and pick up where they left off prior to that night.

He also hopes that a _third_ problem will go away on its own within the next few days, as well. Though he has successfully prevented slumber from conjuring new unsavory images of Mikasa, he still finds himself frequently, and at random, daydreaming about the feel of her abdomen under his hand, her pink lips swollen from his harsh kisses, and the heat of her tongue against his, and her _hips_ -

Eren slams his head down into the table with a growl.

He is luckily alone in the dining hall.

He had been taking meals late and completing errands at odd hours to avoid any run-ins with Mikasa - and Armin, to avoid interrogation, and Sasha and Jean, to avoid their probing gazes - and other people in general. His life for the past two days had consisted of recalling his Mikasa-related guilt and lecherous thoughts at random moments, which induced socially unacceptable reactions. With each random reminder, he cursed loudly, and smacked his head against the nearest flat surface in response, as if to will away his thoughts - hence his violent usage of the table before him.

He groans, rolling his forehead against the wood grain.

“You alright there?”

‘ _Fuck.’_

Eren sits up instantly at the sound of Armin’s voice, to find the blond taking a seat across from him, a book sandwiched beneath his armpit, tray of food in hand.

Leave it to Armin to figure out his irregular eating patterns and schedule instantly.

The blond begins to eat nonchalantly, and Eren blinks back, tensing considerably.

He’d have to be very careful with his words now.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“You look pretty bad,” Armin says around the porridge he has just shoved in his mouth.

“ _Thanks_.”

“No sleep?”

“I’m sleeping just fine.”

“ _Right_.”

And he already sees that his intelligent friend isn’t buying it one bit, and he wants to _leave_ , because he knows he is about to get underhandedly interrogated. He was already no match for Armin’s wit to begin with. In his exhausted state, he’d be even more prone to saying stupid and revealing things.

“What’s keeping you up?” Armin asks.

It was the moment of truth.  

He could either choose to run away, or deflect, or… be honest.

Armin _was_ his best friend after all.

But he could not shake the feeling that recounting what had happened would be disrespectful towards Mikasa. What had occurred between them had been incredibly intimate and had rendered their relationship uncharacteristically fragile.

Revealing the details to a third party felt… _wrong_.

So, he deflects.

“Do you ever think about what’s gonna happen after all this is over?” Eren asks, lifting a hand to absently trace at the wood grain on the table, eyes studying the jagged lines. “I mean, after the ocean, and traveling and all that.”

There is a slight pause, and Eren can see Armin shovel more porridge from his bowl out of his periphery.

“Yeah,” the blond replies thoughtfully. “Sometimes.”

“What do you see yourself doing?”

He doesn’t look at Armin, afraid he will accidentally give _something_ away through an involuntarily telling expression. And he doesn’t want to throw his momentum, as right now, he is doing incredibly well at deflecting.

“Hmm. Traveling a lot, still,” Armin says. “Or maybe helping rebuild the government and acting as counsel for that. I don’t know. But I guess I ultimately see myself settling down and having a family at the end of the day,” he finishes, very matter of factly.

Eren nods.

The response calls to mind Mikasa’s confession, but this time, he does not curse or slam his head against the table. He can only think of the fact that his two best friends could see past the ending. He, however, was too focused on the journey to seriously consider the finer details of life after the titans.

“Do _you_?” Armin’s voice cuts into his thoughts, the words coming out skeptical.

The towheaded boy already knew him well enough to know the answer.

“Do I what?” Eren replies, halting his fingers’ movements, finally turning his head to face Armin.

It’s decidedly a mistake.

“Do _you_ ever think about it. The… _after_ ,” Armin clarifies, before shoving another spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

“No. Not really,” Eren says, and Armin looks unsurprised. “Not until recently, anyway,” he says, staring down at his empty tray.

Silence takes over, and he finds his mind wandering back to the night that did spur such thoughts - to tracing his thumb over her scar, and to the turn of her cheek into his palm, and her gentle smile, and to -

“Oh? What’s got you thinking about it?” 

Eren freezes. 

HIs mind reels to quickly think up another way to deflect, but he is too slow.

“Did Mikasa finally propose?” Armin asks, before gulping down a glass of water.

Eren was not expecting _that,_  andthe question trips him up, and he is stuck staring wide-eyed at the tray, mouth flopping open and closed, and he takes far too long to respond, and he knows it is _over_ when he hears Armin begin to choke on his water.

“She _did_ ,” Armin finally sputters, coughing into his hand, and it’s a cross between a statement and a question.

“She didn’t _propose_!” Eren says in a harsh whisper, though there is no one else around.  

He can feel his face start to warm again, because now that he thinks of it, she _might as well_ have proposed.

Not used to this level of embarrassment, or facing issues of this kind at all, he covers his face with his hand, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, as Armin continues to cough and choke. 

“And I thought you guys had a fight or something,” Armin finally says, clearing his throat.

Eren shakes his head, palm pressed to his face.

“No. It wasn’t a fight.”

“Then, what?”

He remains silent, feeling Armin’s gaze steady on his covered face.

“Alright, well, you’re not sleeping,” the blond begins. “You’ve briefly checked up on her, but you haven’t actually _talked_ to her since we got back. The last time she got hurt this badly, you couldn’t be pulled from her bedside, but _now_ you’re clearly avoiding her, so… A fight would make sense… except for the fact that you’re acting this way about a _joke_ about a proposal. _And_ you’re thinking about life after the titans. So… she didn’t propose _per se_ , but she… confessed to you?”

_‘How the fuck…?’_

At least he had valiantly _tried_ to keep the matter between himself and Mikasa.  

Defeated, Eren raises his head to look back at his friend slowly, and there is no smugness or amusement on Armin’s face. There is only slight concern, face strangely serious, considering the topic at hand.

And when Eren continues to say nothing, and do nothing, it’s confirmation enough.

Eventually, an amused smirk splits across Armin’s mouth, filling Eren with unease.

“You really had _no_ idea, did you?” Armin says, as he continues to eat.

“Of what?”

“That she… you know.”

“No,” Eren shakes his head, and then shrugs. “It’s not like it was obvious.”

Armin's smirk widens.

“It _wasn’t_!” Eren insists, face burning warmer.

“Not to _you_.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eren asks, now genuinely confused and exasperated.

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” Armin says nonchalantly, with a shrug.

Eren sinks down in his seat, crossing his arms on the table, pressing his chin into them, now at eye-level with the bowl on Armin’s tray.

“Everyone else could see it,” he hears Armin say with a mouth full of porridge.

And at that, his mind reels back through what should have been the obvious tells - all the touches, and grabs, and looks of desperation, the tears, the smiles and laughter reserved only for _him_.

_Stupid._

He was so _incredibly_ stupid.  

“What did you say to her?” Armin asks, and Eren fights the urge to growl and curse and slam his head against the table once more.

He stares blankly at the bowl before him.

“Nothing,” Eren says. “I said nothing.” 

He expects Armin to judge or chastise him for it, but he remains silent.

And in that silence, for the first time since that night, he lets himself think of her and that moment, and accepts the discomfort, resisting the reflex to shut down all thoughts of her immediately.

“What _do_ you say to that?” Eren asks quietly.

“The truth - that is, if you even know what the truth is.”

Eren stares at his warped reflection in the bowl, watching his blurred green eyes blink.

“ _Do_ you?” Armin pries further as Eren feared he would.

He sighs, and shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“I don’t want to have to think about this kind of shit right now. It’s distracting as hell,” he spits gruffly, watching his brow knit in annoyance in the blurred reflection.

“It _is_ ,” Armin nods, and Eren is slightly startled at the affirmation. “I’m surprised Mikasa even said anything, because she understands _that_ more than anyone. I thought she would’ve held off until after everything was over. Or close to it, at least.”

Now that he thinks of it, Armin is right. 

Mikasa of all people only says what needs saying, _when_ it needs saying.  

And then his stomach drops, his eyes shooting wide open.

_“I can’t tell you.”_

_“Sure you can.”_

_“No, I can’t.”_

_“Hey… Don’t be difficult. I’m trying to be nice.”_

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, burying his face in his crossed arms.

_He_ had caused this mess.

_He_ had pressed her to open up, despite her attempts to fend him off.

He now recalls her eyes trained on the ceiling, face contorting to mask any and all emotion, and he feels even _worse._

“What?” he hears Armin ask.

“Nothing,” comes his muffled reply, face still pressed into his arms. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t, obviously.”

“Not even Mikasa - _especially_ not Mikasa.”

“I _won’t,_ ” Armin sighs. “But you should really do something about it, soon.”

Eren enjoys the darkness for a beat longer before lifting his head.

“There’s nothing _to_ do. I don’t know what to say to her.”

“So, you don’t know how you feel about her?”

And he reflexively shuts down again, because the more he tries to mull the question over and force himself to sort through his thoughts and feelings, the more he wants to run away and avoid the situation altogether.

He glares down at the table.

“I care about her, obviously, but…” he trails off, and the blockage comes up again, rendering him incapable of even fathoming an end to the sentence. “You know what? Whatever. I don’t want to expend the energy trying figure this out right now. I’m not going to put humanity on hold for a few stupid personal matters,” he says.

The words are bitter on his tongue, and he acknowledges that he sounds like a complete asshole. He chances a look at Armin, whose azures are blinking back at him in surprise.

“So… you just want to brush it all under the rug and hope things go back to normal magically?”

Hearing his “plan” summarized in such a way makes him realize how stupid and unproductive it sounds, but he nods in stubborn defiance anyway.

“Well… I’m sure she’ll understand,” Armin says with a nod, and for a second time, Eren is surprised at the affirmation.

“But, just know,” he continues, “you might've broken her heart.”

_Of course_ there would be a catch to his dear friend, ever-rational Armin, agreeing with his boneheaded line of thinking.

Though he already knew full and well that he had hurt her, Armin’s words capture the extent of the damage he has done, and it fills him to the brim with guilt - moreso than any lascivious thought or recollection of that night had managed to within the past few days.  

“She’ll always hide it and pretend everything's okay. If that’s what you wanted, and if that’s what you asked of her, she’d do that for you,” Armin continues, and every word is a new blow to his heart, and he finds himself sinking down into his seat again, drowning in a new mix of shame and guilt that consumes him whole.

He looks up at Armin, with what must be the most pathetic expression his face has ever mustered, and it must be clear that he has violently struck a chord.

“Hey, listen, do what you gotta do,” Armin says with a shrug, and Eren finds it even worse that there is no judgement in his face or voice, because he _deserves_ it. “I'm not saying this to sway you in any certain way, or make you feel worse. First and foremost, we do have a job to do. But… just know how ignoring this all might affect her. She’d never actually admit any of this, but, you know it’s all true.”

Unfortunately, he does.

_‘Fuck.’_

 

* * *

That night, he is too physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted to resist sleep any longer. 

When he finally surrenders to a deep slumber, it is not a simple and dreamless pitch black that greets him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loved it, hated it? As always, would love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Ah, and as briefly mentioned at the beginning, this has turned into a four part fic, and that is due entirely to the kind, thoughtful comments and encouragement I received from the first chapter. Thank you so much for reading - most especially if you dropped a line, or comment/review. It really does mean the world to a writer to know that the hours spent poring over draft upon draft, and almost developing a hernia trying to keep everyone in character, is appreciated. 
> 
> It is you, dear reviewers, who are responsible for these intense writer steroids, and Eremika dry humping, and Armin's organic truth tea, (and Eren continuing to be a stubborn dumbass afraid of having lovey feelings, but o wait that's just him IRL). And those are some pretty awesome things to be responsible for.
> 
> Anyway, more dreams, more Mikasa, more tension, and more awkwardness soon.


	3. Blink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eren dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up.

* * *

**TOUCH**

_III. Blink_  

* * *

  _ **2.**_

 _He blinks his eyes open to the burning glare of the afternoon sun._ Squinting, he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light, momentarily blinded and unsure of his surroundings. When his eyes finally adjust to the brightness, he lowers his hand and tilts his head up to the cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly above him, rooftops and tall, stone buildings edging his periphery - and he remembers what has brought him here.

_‘Where is…?’_

He looks ahead, and there are clotheslines and green capes and white sheets lining his path, swaying gently in the summer breeze. His feet carry him forward into the thick of the maze of clean clothing, and he is immersed in their soapy scent as he weaves through, hands gingerly pushing aside the white shirts and sheets that blow into him from the occasional strong gust.  

And then, he comes to a stop before a sheet only partially hung, the familiar silhouette behind it stretching to pin the last corner to aa clothesline that is _just_ out of reach. He stands with his arms crossed, cocking his head to observe curiously, and not a moment too soon, the wind blows the entire sheet onto into the female shadow, who in response, grunts and bats violently agai itnst it to combat the wind. He successfully withholds a snort, but cannot contain the grin that bursts onto his face at the sight and sound of one of humanity’s most powerful soldiers at war with a piece of laundry.

His amusement only grows when the sheet comes loose altogether, falling to the ground slowly and carrying on the wind, about to reveal what he thought would be a flustered and disgruntled raven haired woman. But, as the sheet sinks to the ground between them, his eyes catch onto a flash of furious charcoal blues, blazing behind the blur of a fist slicing through the air in his direction. His eyes pop wide in surprise as he jerks his head out of the way _just_ in the nick of time, just _narrowly_ dodging the blow, his left hand shooting up to capture her wrist, as her knuckle just barely grazes his cheek.

Just as soon as he traps her, his assailant attempts to pull roughly out of his grip, and his breathing labors from the unexpected attack as he holds her wrist in place, surprised and impressed with his own reflexes - and at the fact that he is strong enough to maintain his grip. With another fruitless tug, her glare snaps from his hand to his eyes - and at the recognition, her expression instantly melts from battle-ready fury into flustered puzzlement.

Her lips part, and a sound comes up from the back of her throat that sounds like the beginning of a word, but she falls silent just as quickly, mouth closing - and opening, and closing.

They stand in silence, and as the seconds tick by, he begins to register his heart palpitating violently and thumping in his ears at the unexpected assault Mikasa had very nearly administered to his face.

Eventually, both his heart rate and breathing slow enough for him to understand what has just happened.

And he laughs.

Because, although her hair now touches to her shoulders, and she dons a simple dress and apron far more often than Survey Corps green, moments like this brought forth the merciless warrior within, and were an amusing - albeit dangerous - break from her usual demure disposition. He had to admit that he loved such moments, because they were _her_ through and through.

She blushes as his laughter persists, her arm going slack in his grip, and the bashful frown on her face is so incredibly endearing, and she is so _beautiful_ , that he forgets why he is even laughing.

And soon enough, it is silent, and they are left standing close, staring at one another upon a familiar rooftop in a familiar district, and it feels like home. 

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she replies sheepishly.

His stomach flutters.  

“Sorry about that… I didn’t mean to hit you. I didn’t know it was you,” she stammers, voice dripping with guilt, eyes flicking anywhere else but his. “I thought-”

He pulls her in by the wrist and leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips as if it is the most natural thing in the world. And though they have moved _far_ beyond such kisses, her face flushes at the affectionate interruption, and it makes his head giddy with satisfaction.

“It’s okay. I deserved it,” he says with a lopsided grin, releasing her wrist to press his palm to the prominent swell of her abdomen, which was now snug under her apron. “I guess I shouldn’t be trying to give the mother of my unborn child a heart attack.”

She simpers at the sentiment, placing her hand over his.

“I’ll finish up here,” he says, leaning in close, unable to force the smile off of his face, and he finds himself wondering how he ever developed the capacity to be so disgustingly sappy.

“You don’t have to do that,” she replies, absently running her fingertips over the bumps of his knuckles, and he very quickly remembers what has reduced him to this uncharacteristic pile of goo.

He was married to a selfless and gorgeous woman, whose scowl could drive armies away, and who had devoted her youth to cleaving humanoid beasts in his name.

He wonders how there was ever a time he _wasn’t_ smitten with her.

“Well, I want to,” he insists, fingers curling to catch hers between his, atop her now rotund abdomen. “You should be resting anyway.”

She reaches her other hand up to nestle her fingers in his hair and leans forward, resting her forehead against his.

“Okay,” Mikasa acquiesces quietly, before pressing a light kiss to his mouth. When she moves back, he pulls her in to deepen the kiss, and feels her grin against his mouth, her fingers curling in his hair just the way he liked it. When he finally lets her go, she remains against his forehead and says, “You can make dinner too, then.”

He groans in feigned annoyance and butts his head lightly against hers.

“ _Fine_ ,” he murmurs.

His fingers intertwine with hers upon the swell of her belly, and he is suddenly overcome with emotion, and very glad their eyes are both closed so she can’t catch him being _sensitive_ about her and the life growing within her - again.

 

* * *

  _He blinks and opens his eyes to small emerald greens that mirror his_ , a scant tuft of raven hair atop an otherwise bald head, and the child is a warm bundle in his arms that has instantly claimed secondary ownership of his heart, and he wants to cry - and laugh, because the baby boy is just as quiet and calm as the flushed and exhausted woman in the bed before him.

“He looks just like you,” Eren says, brushing the back of his index finger against his newborn son’s tiny, velvet soft cheek. The baby turns into his touch and blinks up at him silently, and he feels himself beam like a fool.

“No, he definitely looks more like you,” he hears Mikasa say. “He’s just not scowling.”

“ _Hey_ , that’s...” he begins, taking offense, before looking down at the boy in his arms. Though his eyes are more slight like hers, hair a deep onyx like hers, the child had inherited his tan complexion and eye color.

“... that’s… kind of true, I guess,” he grumbles before glancing up to meet Mikasa’s amused gaze. Eyes trained on the infant in his gentle hold, she outstretches her arms expectantly, and he smiles and rises from his seat to settle on the bed next to her, before gently passing their son into her waiting arms.

Sitting back, he watches her cradle the tiny bundle that is all their making so very gingerly, as though she is afraid she may accidentally crush it with her superhuman strength if she is not careful. He then shifts his gaze to her face, and the sight is startling and makes the hairs on his arms stand on end, because she is _smiling_.

 _Really_ smiling.

Though she now cracked a small smile here and there more often, she rarely ever smiled so unabashedly and exuberantly. And with the raw emotion on her face, eyes shining with unshed tears, skin glistening with sweat, raven bangs sticking to her face, cheeks flushed from exhaustion, he swears she has never looked more beautiful.

Jaw slacking until his mouth is hanging slightly ajar, he is completely captivated and unable to look away, as he begins to reflect on his great fortune - that he could live to see _this_ moment, and watch his closest friend, protector, confidante, and lover, cradle a bundle of warmth that is equal parts him _and_ her, and to -

“He has your eyes.”

The words halt his thoughts, coming out just barely above a whisper, and it might just be the softest he’s ever heard her speak.

At the sound, he finds his eyes inexplicably beginning to sting with the threat of tears, his throat beginning to close up, and he must draw in a deep breath to regain his composure, inwardly cursing himself for the strange physical reactions that are completely out of his control.

And then she turns to look at him, and he is caught in the act of gawking and being _sensitive_ , but there is no judgement in the charcoal blues that blink inquisitively at him for his silence. He feels his face warm, and he can only smile back sheepishly and clear his throat to mask his embarrassment. He then scoots closer to her on the bed and puts an arm around her shoulders.  

“Mmm. But I hope he has your patience,” Eren says, poking gently at the boy’s stomach, “And abdominal strength.”

And for the second time that day, Mikasa renders him speechless and awestruck as she cracks the silence with her laughter - a rare and incredibly beautiful thing.

He decides that, next to the whir of blades against titan flesh, it’s his most favorite sound in the entire world.

 

* * *

_He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, opening them to the sight of her moonlit, serene face._

_‘She’s like a fucking painting,’_ he muses.

 He scoots in closer, careful not to make any sudden movements to wake her.

“You were a stupid, stupid boy, Eren…” he mutters to himself, raising a hand to trace his fingertips against the velvet soft skin of her cheek, trailing them down to outline the curve of her rosebud pink lips.

 _‘This is mine,’_ he childishly thinks to himself all the while. _‘All mine.’_

His index finger trails down her chin, before he lets his hand drop back onto the bed with a sigh.

“I don’t deserve you, do I?” he whispers at her sleeping form. “I… probably never have. But I’m trying to, now - trying to deserve you, because you make me so incredibly, stupidly happy… ”

He raises his hand once more to brush at her cheek with the back of his fingers, and unexpectedly, she turns her head into his touch, eyes still closed, a small smile on her face. He opens his hand to cup her cheek, and she shifts just enough to press a soft kiss into his palm, before settling back into her pillow, eyes remaining closed.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers, glad for the darkness as he is certain his face is now glowing pink. While he had become used to showing his affection for her physically in their private moments - almost excessively - he still rarely ever _verbalized_ his feelings. Despite how far they had come, he still found doing so painfully embarrassing and unnatural.

“I’m not dreaming?” she murmurs drowsily, eyes remaining closed as she places her hand on his, fingertips trailing over the sensitive ridges on the backs of his fingers. “Eren doesn’t say sweet things like this in real life.”

“Hey. I _do._ Sometimes,” he whispers, and her smile stretches wider. “Didn’t I just do it?”

“Only when you thought I was sleeping.”

“Well, you’re awake _now_.”

“I am,” she says.

Then she peeps one eye open in expectation, and he fights the grin that threatens to spread on his face, but fails to mold it into an irritated frown. He then sighs and scoots in closer, so their foreheads are touching.

“Fine,” he grumbles, bumping his nose against hers, and she closes the lone eye.

“You… fight good... _still_ , and… your abs are awesome,” he stammers, and he feels her stifle a laugh at his inability to be complimentary. “What? I’m really impressed at how quickly you got them back after having Hannes.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” she replies flatly.

He grins, and brushes his thumb against her cheek, blinking down at the bridge of her nose thoughtfully.

“Thanks for… always nagging me like you do. I’d probably be dead if you didn’t,” he begins.

“Mmhmm,” she nods in affirmation against him, and he butts his head against her lightly with a slight pout that she cannot even see.

“Thank you for… choosing me instead of Jean, even though you probably should have chosen him and his stupid horse face.”

“That was never going to happen.”

His smile widens, and he presses a kiss to her nose, ego momentarily flaring.

He stares on and continues his ministrations, until his thumb catches upon the small, puckered stretch of skin beneath her eye. He pauses and shifts back slightly to stare at the scar intently, and resumes his caress, calling to mind the time he had marked her with it, and the time nearly a decade later he had finally fully acknowledged it.

She opens her eyes, likely sensing the change in mood, and in her gaze he finds concern and knowing.

“Thanks for…” his eyes flick back to hers from the scar.

“Thanks for doing… _this_ with me,” he whispers hoarsely, sliding his thumb back over the smooth line, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him.

And from the look in her eye, she understands that his “this” spans the entirety of their history together - from her following him into hell without batting an eyelash, and stubbornly staying by his side, to the ways she has let his hands rove her body, and to the reclamation of their home and their new adventure in beginning a family together.

“There’s no one else I’d rather… brave it all with,” he says, his face warming at the uncharacteristically tender honesty of his words because having her _look_ at him while he says things like this makes him feel so very vulnerable and naked.

She blinks back at him, clearly taken off guard at the serious tone the originally lighthearted game has taken, because now even _her_ eyes are shining with emotion. She closes her fingers around his hand, lifting it slightly to lean forward and press a prolonged kiss to his mouth, before settling back down into her pillow.

She kisses the the center of his palm once more before setting his palm back upon her cheek and closing her eyes, her fingertips resuming the circles they are tracing on the back of his hand.

“So… was that good enough?” he whispers in an attempt to lighten the mood.

She nods under his palm.

“Mmhmm. It was very good.”

“Good.”

He is staring again, relishing in her warmth and the gentle trace of her fingers on his skin.

“Now I don’t think I’ll be able to say anything nice to you or anyone else for an entire year,” he breaks the silence gruffly.

“That’s okay. We’re all already used to it.”

“ _Hey_!” he whispers harshly.

She chuckles quietly, and he does too, feeling as stupidly happy as ever.

 

* * *

He blinks his eyes open to his ceiling, and he is alone.

A smile is fixed to his face, his cheeks wet with stray tears, and the way the cool air meets his skin tells him that he is no longer dreaming.

In his drowsy haze, a strange sense of loss is felt as he presses his forearm to his eyes to wipe away the moisture. And, just as soon as he registers his smile, he forces the corners of his mouth back down into a thin line.  

“What the _fuck…_?” he mutters, keeping his arm pressed to his eyes, trying his best to squash the unwanted pangs of longing that begin to swell.

 

* * *

The next day, when the sun is warm on his back, and his knees are pressed into the grass, hands caked with dirt, he is filled to the brim with thoughts of moonlit raven hair splayed against bedsheets, and serene charcoal blues that crinkle in gaiety, and pink lips that part to give way to a rare and joyous sound. And all the while, he is in the midst of executing one of Levi’s stranger tasks ( _gardening_ , of all things) and it is so mindless that his brain has no choice but to wander towards the issue at the forefront of his mind - which, for once, had very little to do with titans.  

While he still found such thoughts to be an inconvenient nuisance, their inevitability and frequency had forced him to, at the very least, be able to _sit_ with them - as opposed to resorting to self harm to halt them altogether.

And as the day wore on, and his mind rewound his most recent dream over, and over again, he found himself comfortable enough to snort about it - mostly at how absurdly _romantic_ he had been in it.

His dream-self was absolutely over the moon, head over heels in love with his childhood friend and fierce protector. Throughout the fantasy that had played out, his dream-self was also extremely _physical_ and always found a way to place his hands (or mouth) on her - which he found completely odd and uncharacteristic.

 _‘Pfft. Like I’d_ ever _say or do all that…’_ he muses with an airless laugh.

While he had come to appreciate Mikasa’s comforting touches and embraces, shining a more than platonic light on such interactions was a completely foreign concept to him, which rendered his dream-self’s actions even more confusing.

He hadn’t even ever kissed someone until _that_ night - nor had the thought of doing so crossed his mind, aside from the times the other boys would speak about their perversions in the bunks. While his first thought was unintentionally Mikasa at such times - _not at all_ due to some weird attraction, but by virtue of the fact that she was the most prominent female presence in his life - he quickly dismissed such acts and thoughts as a waste of time when there was so much more at stake. 

But, then again, he’d had that _one_ dream about Mikasa.

And that was only after he’d experienced the mildest level of bunker-talk with her.

 _And_ , he had thought frequently about the contents of that dream in his ensuing waking hours.

Perhaps he really was no better than his comrades, and perhaps all men - _unfortunately_ \- were someday fated to think in such away. 

But, he recalls that _they_ had focused purely on physical acts and women’s outer appearances, and he had never once reduced Mikasa’s value to her appearance. In fact, he had barely even taken note of it, other than the very obvious fact that she looked different from everyone else - no one else he knew had the luster and silk of her jet black hair, or the peculiar beige tone of her skin.  

 _Though_ , now, while recalling all that foolish bunker-talk and reflecting on his dream-self’s way of thinking, he supposed that he could agree that Mikasa was, in _some way_ , objectively… aesthetically… _agreeable_.

That is to say, the more he thought of it, he _supposed_ he preferred the… _look of her face_ to that of other women.  

Her eyes were smaller than most, and bore a distinct slant and shape that was unique to her, and her alone. And he _supposed_ that this rare feature complimented all the rest - complimented the soft, yet pointed curve of her nose, and the rosepink tone of her lips against the very particular beige, yet snow white, canvas of her skin. And he supposed that, if he were to buy into his shallow comrades’ bunker talk, and his obsessive dream-self’s line of thinking, Mikasa was actually, maybe, quite… pleasant to look at.

Maybe.

He _supposed_.

However, one thing he and his dream-self could agree on, without any reluctance at all, was that Mikasa had an amazing body.

His dream-self’s admiration of her abdomen throughout the course of the dream was somewhat grounded in truth. Even _he_ himself did not possess the discipline she did with her workouts.

 _‘The body of a soldier with great discipline,’_ he muses to himself with an impressed nod.

He exhales through the side of his mouth as he begins to dig a new hole, and the image of her bare abdomen flickers across his mind - which then rapidly dissolves into vivid imagery of his _first_ dream of her. In response, he shakes his head vigorously and continues to dig, now all but stabbing frantically into the earth.

He focuses back on his most recent dream to will away the lecherous thoughts, and as he runs through the imagined events once more and distances himself from the thought of her bare abdomen, he takes note of one small, unrelated detail that piques his curiosity.

_‘Hannes.’_

In his dream, they had named their first child _Hannes_.

Goosebumps prickle his skin, a shudder running up his spine at the homage to their fallen savior and friend.

And then he thinks of the small, imagined life he held in his arms who was named for the kind then-drunkard, but at the same time who was nothing at all like the kind then-drunkard, because the little imaginary thing already acted like _her_ and looked like _him_.

It was _eerie_.

He reaches into the sack next to him, filled with the bulbs Levi had instructed him to plant, and plucks a bulb out before gingerly placing it into the small pit he has dug.

And as he pushes the earth back into the hole with his bare hands, he finds that he cannot stop thinking of the imaginary little boy with _his_ eyes and _her_ hair, named Hannes.

He wonders if, in addition to Mikasa’s demeanor, little Hannes would also inherit her strength.

And suddenly, he imagines the small boy, grown to perhaps six years of age, with his face and her nonchalant expression, sauntering across a bustling marketplace and carrying a stack of crates twice his size and weight with surprising ease - and he imagines _himself_ walking alongside the child and gazing down at him with a proud smile as others starred on.

“You know, I had _heard_ gardening helped people relax.”

Armin’s voice snaps him out of his reverie, and only then does he register the intensely cheerful crinkle of his own eyes, and the wide smile that is splayed on his mouth.

He can feel his face warm as he immediately flips his expression back into an irritated half-scowl.

“Uh, what?” Eren clears his throat, while resuming shoving the rest of the soil back into the hole before him. “Oh, right. Gardening? Yeah it’s fine I guess. I asked Levi to assign me a task and this is all he had left for me to do.”

Eren chances a look up at his unwanted company, who is blinking down at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Interesting,” the blond nods. “You look like you’re in a better mood though. Have you talked to -”

“No.”

Eren picks up his hand shovel and pats the soil before him flat.

“Oh. So when are you going to -”

“I dunno.”

“Oh. Alright,” Armin says, and Eren can hear the shrug in his tone. And just when he thinks he is safe, the blond continues on and says, “Just a heads up, we have that special ops squad meeting tomorrow, so you’re definitely gonna see her.”

Eren freezes, his shovel arm falling limp. He sits back on his heels and shakes his head, wiping the sweat off of his brow with his forearm.

“Shit...” he mutters under his breath.

“Yup,” the blond says nonchalantly, only further contributing to Eren’s irritation. “So do you know how you-”

“ _No_ ,” Eren says, emerald greens shooting a warning glare up into calm, azure blues.

“Well, alright, but you don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what you were going to say.”

“Okay, what was it?”

“You were gonna ask if I know how I feel about her - or, if I know what I’m gonna say to her when I see her!” he snaps back irritably.

Armin blinks back, completely unfazed.

“I was gonna ask if you knew how you were gonna _avoid_ her, but… yeah, I wanna know the answer to all that, too.”

A _trap_.  

Eren frowns, tearing his leer from his best friend and redirecting his gaze to the sky. 

Armin was just _too good_ at fishing out information without trying to be. Or maybe he _was_ trying and Eren was just too dumb to ever catch on.

He sighs.

“No,” Eren replies curtly. “No, to everything.”

“Are you any closer -?”

“No.”

He sees Armin nod in his periphery.

“I see… ”

Eren scowls at the sky, but the longer his gaze lingers, the more he finds his irritation slowly fading, noting that the sky is just as blue and cloudless as the backdrop of his most recent dream. And at the recognition, visions of hanging laundry and the pregnant swell of Mikasa’s abdomen flicker across his mind, and before he knows it, he is uttering dangerous words.

“I had a dream about her.”

Almost immediately, he regrets the confession and curses his loose tongue when he catches a glimpse of the smile that momentarily bursts across Armin’s face, before he purses his lips and nods to conceal it.

“Oh?” Armin asks curiously, voice not even attempting conceal interest. “And what happened?”

Eren sets his jaw and shakes his head, turning to dig another hole into the earth.

“Nothing,” he grumbles as he stabs into the soil with his hand shovel, concentrating extra hard on the action so that he would have a reason not to look at Armin.

“Ah… so _that’s_ why you looked so happy.”

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Eren huffs, his stabs getting noticeably more violent, as he feels his ears begin to burn.

“You don’t have to tell me the details. I’ll just assume that it was a… a very _good_ dream,” and the suggestion in Armin’s voice makes the warmth in his ears spread to his face, and he has to stop digging.

“What the hell, Armin?” he spits, turning to glare up at his best friend incredulously, who seems startled at the reaction. He would expect such behavior from perhaps Connie, but never _Armin_ , and he has to wonder if he is dreaming, now, too. “It wasn’t like that!”

At least _this_ particular dream wasn’t “like that”.

“Not like what?” Armin blinks, feigning innocence all too well.

Unless his innocence is _not_ feigned and he _himself_ is actually the perverse one, _imagining_ the suggestion in Armin’s voice.

Eren glowers, frustrated at Armin’s intentional - or unintentional, he’s still unsure - mind games.

“Not like…!” Eren waves his hands in the air, the shovel still tightly clutched in one, as though hoping wildly gesticulating would help him complete his sentence.

He then lets out a disgruntled sigh, hands dropping to his sides, staring absently ahead at the half-empty sack of bulbs.

“It wasn’t anything… _perverted_. We were just…”

He lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

“We were… _married_.”

Saying it aloud is a completely different experience, because it is essentially an admission that his mind was indeed capable of conjuring such thoughts, and of viewing her in _that_ way. He finds that the confession brings no catharsis - only regret, because he has exposed himself fully and revealed a key detail of the extremely private and confusing thoughts that he has not yet worked through, that he is _certain_ Armin would now attempt to analyze. Now he does not even want to chance a look at Armin’s expression, because he can already _feel_ the shit-eating grin radiating off of his best friend’s face.

Eren shakes his head, angry with himself for saying anything, and he continues to dig, ignoring the feel of Armin’s discerning gaze on his back.

“Okay… so?” Armin presses.

“It was just a stupid dream,” Eren replies, stabbing into the soil.

“Well, how did you feel about it?”

He is now more regretful than ever about opening his big mouth.

Already drained from his own inner monologue and having to fend Armin off, he sighs, chucking some earth off of his shovel, and onto the grass.

“I… I didn’t hate it, I guess,” he all but mumbles with a shrug.

Now he hears Armin sigh, and the sound touches a nerve.

“ _What_?” Eren snaps. He stabs the shovel into the ground so that it is standing on its own, turning to peer at Armin, his irritation at the conversation already at its height.

“Look… I’m standing by what I said yesterday,” he says, just now making the decision as the words spill out of his mouth. “I don’t have time for this now. You said it yourself, right? We’ve got a job to do.”

He watches as the glimmer of amusement in Armin’s eyes fades, and the blond’s face is once more neutral as he nods with a small smile.

“Yeah. You’re right about that.”

As Armin stares on, Eren cannot tell if there is _pity_ in his best friend’s azure gaze, or if it is just an imagined construct of his own now incredibly defensive mind. Either way, he cannot stand it, so he looks down and talks to the patch of grass between Armin’s boots instead.

“Besides,” Eren continues, “After we all just _finish_ what we’ve set out to do, I’ll… I’ll have all the time in the world to work this nonsense out with her.”

And here was yet _another_ admission, which displayed his willingness to pick the topic back up someday, at some point in time. 

He hopes it is enough to fend Armin off, as it is _somewhat_ of a compromise.

But it is silent for too long, and he must look up at Armin who staring down at him with thoughtful blues, eyebrow arched inquisitively.

“Will you, though?” he asks, as their eyes meet.

The three words are jarring, and not at all the reassurance he expected to receive from Armin.

Hadn’t Eren just admitted he wouldn’t run away from this forever?

Wasn’t that enough?

He frowns, because Armin’s reply is vague enough to inspire a flurry of objections and questions within him, but before he can even open his mouth to retort and tell him to stop being so cryptic, the boy shifts his stance and says:

“Anyway, gotta get back in to go over expedition plans with Erwin. I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow, though. Have fun gardening!”

Eren’s mouth hangs open, and he nods silently, eyes narrowing as the blond waves at him and makes his way back into the castle.

Staring after the receding figure, he blinks, unsure of what has just taken place. He then turns and pulls the shovel from the ground, and resumes his work.

 _‘Will you though?’_ he recalls the words as he stabs into the soil with a deep frown. _‘What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?’_

Eren grumbles a slew of expletives under his breath, and the thoughts spinning in his head are both draining and high in volume and he finds himself stabbing the hand shovel into the grass once more, with a growl.

“Dammit Armin…” he mutters to himself.

 

* * *

He sleeps dreamlessly that night. 

In the morning, he opens his eyes to his wall, resenting the feeling of disappointment that takes over.

 

* * *

He is not at all prepared.

When he sees her in the flesh for the first time, he is not _at all_ prepared.

With just a brief glance at her side profile, visions of hanging laundry, a snug apron, a child with _her_ demeanor and _his_ eyes flood through his mind, rendering him motionless in the doorway.

The few others in the room are chatting amongst themselves, and Levi has his back turned to the door, and _she_ is staring into a conversation she is not at all contributing to - until she isn’t.  

With the slight turn of her head, wide emerald greens meet weary charcoal blues, and his skin prickles and he feels a strange mix of fear and panic and _relief_ , and his stomach does a violent flip, eyebrows nearly shooting up to his hairline in flustered shock, as though he has been caught doing something wildly inappropriate. As his heart rate picks up, he tries his damndest to stand his ground and fix his face to maintain the gaze as though nothing is wrong and all is well and normal - and she blinks back curiously, probably wondering why he looks as though he is about to pass out.

At this point, the urge to back out of the room and hide is shamefully overwhelming, as he is already failing hard at his mission to restore normalcy between them. Eventually, the entirely one-sided intensity of it all is too much, and he must tear away. He swallows hard and blinks a few times, feeling his ears begin to burn, and he coughs into his closed fist before sucking in a deep breath to regain his composure. He then stalks over to the table towards a seat at the corner exactly opposite of her, feeling her eyes trail him until eventually her gaze falls away.

 _‘Yeah, totally normal. Get your shit together, Eren,’_ he curses inwardly.

He takes a seat next to Sasha and across from Armin, who throws him a knowing glance and sympathetic smile, at which he frowns dryly in response.

Already wanting the meeting to be over, he immediately turns to look up the table, wondering what was taking so long for it to commence. When he finds Connie nowhere in sight, he lets out a heavy sigh and settles back into his seat, leg beginning to restlessly bounce under the table.

And, as the seconds tick by, the strangely powerful desire to look up at _her_ begins to take over.

He shifts in his seat, sighing heavily again, and the urge is like an itch that won’t go away, and he doesn’t comprehend it at all. The thoughts and physical reactions she incites in him by the mere fact of her presence should _logically_ make him want to look anywhere else _but_ her.

  
But, not even a minute passes before he gives in and finds his eyes wandering over in her direction once more. This time, she is sitting back in her chair, eyes closed, making it far easier to stare on. 

However, what he sees as he observes her is worrying. Only now does he notice the extent of her pallor, and the sweat forming on her brow. She shifts slightly with a closed mouthed cough, and the sudden motion jostles him out of his trance and dissipates his embarassment completely, concern taking over. He leans over to his right towards Sasha.

“Is she okay?” he asks as quietly and inconspicuously as possible.

The brunette turns towards him with a slight frown. 

“Yeah… kind of. She’s doing much better than yesterday.”

Just a twinge of dread prods at his stomach.

“Yesterday? What happened yesterday?” he asks, making every effort to keep his tone even and cool.

“She had a fever.”

Given her weakened state, her falling with a fever was not entirely out of the question. However, he cannot help the pang of guilt that arises at the fact that he wasn’t around to -

“... after she exercised,” Sasha finishes her sentence with a grimace.

“ _What_?!” he whispers sharply and Sasha shrugs away from him defensively, eyes wide and borderline fearful.

“I didn’t know she even left her room!” she whispers back meekly. “I was just passing the training room, and there she was. I mean, her fever’s gone down since last night, but she’s obviously still not a hundred percent.”

Eren’s frown deepens. He is not surprised that she had attempted to workout in her condition - but at least when she had been injured before, he was there to limit the strenuousness of the exercises she so stubbornly insisted on doing.

The swell of guilt worsens even further when it crosses his mind that had he been there, perhaps he could have talked her out of it.

“Yeah… her workout was pretty intense too. Kind of violent,” Sasha adds as an afterthought, now also turning to look at Mikasa.

" _Violent_?”

Sasha nods, looking back at him.

“She broke a punching bag.”

“ _Broke a punching bag?”_ he whispers in disbelief, trying to keep his shock at a relatively low volume.

“Busted a hole into it,” Sasha says, continuing to nod in affirmation.

His mouth hangs open as he turns his gaze back to Mikasa, who now appears to be taking a nap. He wonders how someone in her condition could manage to inflict such damage, but then he remembers it is _her_ , and that alone is enough of an explanation.

“So, she was combat training with a cold and a serious injury,” he says, not even bothering to mask his annoyance with Sasha. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

She blinks incredulously at him, and he feels as though the bewildered gaze is meant to shame him, and send the message that perhaps _he_ should’ve been the one to stop her.

“Okay, I want you to think about the words you just said,” the brunette says, whispering loudly while gesticulating, “and then actually picture me _trying_ to do that. Better yet, picture me trying to come between the punching bag and Mikasa. Picture what _I_ would look like, if-”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. She would’ve punched a hole through you,” Eren mutters, feeling very little relief at the fact that the shaming component of her gaze was only imagined, because the guilt that bites at him is still very much real.

Sasha sighs, reverting back from animated to concerned. She then gives pause, eyeing him pensively, and immediately, his defenses fly up.

“It’s weird, you know? I hadn’t seen her like that before.”

“... like what?”

“Ah… I dunno. I didn’t stick around long because I felt like she wanted to be alone…” Sasha glances across the table, and they are both looking at the napping Ackerman. “She didn’t look angry and scary like she usually does when she works out. She looked angry and… kind of sad.”

And at that, his stomach sinks, because he already knows with some certainty that he is _somehow_ connected with her irrational decision to maul apart a punching bag.

Perhaps she had even imagined _him_ as the punching bag.

He stifles the urge to cringe as his mouth curves into a frown, guilt coursing through him. He stares on, taking in the sight of her hollowed cheeks, and the dark circles under her eyes, observing the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and chest with each ragged breath drawn. And after a while, he is suddenly aware of Sasha’s sympathetic gaze boring into the side of his face, to which he has the urge to snap _‘What?! SHUT UP!’_

He looks back at Sasha, hoping his mild scowl is enough to get her to stop staring. But, she opens her mouth to speak, then pauses, clearly attempting to tread very lightly.  

“You should talk to her,” she says slowly, the caution in her tone evident.

He finds himself feeling even more defensive, and his jerk reaction is to tell her to mind her own damn business - until it occurs to him that she is not wrong.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice low and quiet as he looks away and down at the table in shame, settling back in his seat.

He feels her continue to stare at him - until Connie busts in through the door, rousing Mikasa from her nap, the entire squad turning their attention to the room’s entrance.

“Sorry! I thought it was at six-thirty!” Connie says through a nervous laugh, taking a seat next to Sasha by the head of the table, right next to Levi, who throws him a chilling glare before finally commencing the meeting.

Over the course of the next hour, Eren watches as Mikasa strains to keep her tired eyes open, and sit up straighter. While he is, for the most part, attentive to their mission directives, he finds his gaze wandering back to her repeatedly, secondhand anxiety building as he watches her stare on at the captain, brow furrowed in concentration, clearly attempting to mask whatever pain or discomfort she was feeling. Finally, whatever she was feeling must have become too much, because she suddenly rises from her seat, cutting Levi mid-sentence.

The captain arches his eyebrow at her, strangely unfazed, and the entire squad’s eyes are on her.

“Excuse me,” she says politely, yet weakly, without looking up.

She pushes out from the table and heads towards the exit, and Eren’s eyes trail after her as Levi resumes speaking - and before the door can fully shut closed behind her, he, too,  is on his feet.

It takes a moment for him to register what he has just done, and he can feel the entire squad’s inquisitive and probing gazes trained on him - but he decides he is too concerned for her to care at all about what could possibly be crossing their minds.

“Is there a problem, Eren?” Levi asks, now clearly irritated with the consecutive interruptions.

Eren blinks at him, eyes briefly flicking at the door, and before he can utter a word, Levi waves him off. 

“Go,” he says, shifting his eyes back to the group.

Eren makes his exit, feeling the weight of curious stares on his back as he leaves.

Once in the hallway, he sees her walking slowly, a hand pressed to her head.

“Oy, Mikasa,” he calls her name softly.

It rolls off of his tongue not quite the same as before, but he ignores the feeling, focusing more on the distinct urgency in his pace as he strides towards her.

She turns - rather swiftly for someone in her condition - her weary eyes widening in bewilderment at the sight and sound of him, and when their eyes meet again, his stomach flutters, and his fists involuntarily clench defensively.

He curses inwardly at the involuntary physical reactions, but tries to ignore them.

“Are you alright?” he asks, attempting to keep a calm and even tone. He stops a safe distance away, feeling himself begin to tense in her presence.

She nods slowly, expression still wrought with puzzlement.

And then they are looking at one another all _alone_ , and he finds himself flustered and unable to hold her gaze yet again, and instead directs his eyes at a nice, neutral area - her shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll walk you back to your room,” he says to her shoulder.

It is silent for a moment, until he looks back up at her, and he curses internally yet again. Her expression has faded back into her usual calm and extremely difficult-to-read disposition.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, and he swallows because her _voice…_ It is the first time he has heard the sound in days, and it is gentle and light and strangely soothing to his ears. “Thanks though.”

“It’s fine,” he insists, hoping the inexplicable amount of satisfaction he feels at merely hearing her voice is not evident. “I’m already here.”

“No, it’s fine - I’m fine,” she says calmly, yet firmly, and now she is the one averting her gaze.

Her defiance awakens the confrontational part of him, and for the first time in days, rather than the fear or embarrassment he has consistently been feeling in her presence, he feels a familiar irritation with her steel stubbornness - akin to what he felt on the night that started this whole mess.

“You’re not fine. You’re sick and wounded, you left the meeting early - and you _broke a punching bag_ ,” he says flatly, taking another step closer.

At the mention of her workout activities, her calm demeanor shifts into a mild glare, likely brought on with Sasha in mind.

“It was falling apart already,” she says quietly and somewhat guiltily, though there is an irritated edge to her voice at being exposed.

“ _Right_ ,” he says with a shake of his head.  “Come on. You should be resting.”

He moves to take another step forward, but freezes midway.

_‘Well, I want to… You should be resting, anyway.’_

The familiar sentence from the dream that is now carved into his memory makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth, and he remembers white sheets and rooftop kisses and baby bumps, and the accidental reference effectively burns away at the ability to be normal with her - which he had _just_ relearned a few moments ago - because such thoughts are now flitting through his mind a mile a minute.

But, even in the prolonged silence the ensues following his insistence, Mikasa does not look up him.

In fact, her heel scrapes the ground in a move to step back and distance herself from him, and it is far too quiet and they are far too isolated for him to not notice the extremely subtle and evasive action. And, despite his need to keep a safe, physical distance from her, he still finds himself feeling just twinge of offense.

“I’m fine,” she repeats, a firmer edge to her tone, her gaze still directed at the floor.

And they both fall silent - him, staring at her pallid face, her staring at the ground. Her expression is incomprehensible, though the tension in her body is evident, and it feels like all the air is slowly being sucked out of the room, because the silent stalemate is filled with stiffened limbs and bated breaths and words unspoken.

As time passes, it becomes increasingly clear that her stubborn refusal of his assistance goes far beyond a desire to not be burdensome, and means so much more than her usual self-effacing humility.

 _‘You might’ve broken her heart,’_ Armin’s stupidly reasonable voice echoes in his mind.

Eren swallows, now unsure of how to smoothly respond or approach the situation. In an attempt to gather his thoughts, his eyes trail down to the floor - until they catch upon the bruised and purpled skin of her porcelain knuckles.

The very familiar ache of guilt begins to blossom at the pit of his stomach.

“You’re upset with me,” he blurts, eyes darting back up to her face.

At that, her expression softens, and she slowly lifts her head to look back at him, finally beginning to display at least a semblance of emotion, with the subtle questioning curve of her brow.

“That’s why you…” he waves a hand over at her right hand, and in self consciousness, she fists her hands so they partially disappear beneath the sleeves of her cardigan.

“No, I… ” she begins, blinking and shaking her head, and now her brow is furrowed in thought, and it seems that she, too, is at a loss for words.

And then they are stuck in another silent stalemate, until Eren’s gaze hits the floor once more, and he lets out an exasperated “tsk”.

“It’s okay. You… it’s alright if you… if you’re mad at me. I’m - I know I’ve haven’t been… _around_ , but… ”

He trails off, wracking his brain as to how he should complete the sentence, because he does not know how to without explaining why he was acting the way he was. Doing so meant divulging a whole slew of thoughts and feelings that he was not prepared to divulge.

The only other alternative was verbalizing his belief that they should wait until after their grand mission was complete to speak about what had taken place between them. And even this option wasn’t ideal, as doing so could either come off as a rejection, or plant a seed of hope in her that neither could afford to pay any heed, when there were far more important mattes at hand.

Frustration takes over as he fruitlessly tries to select the right words to say. All the while, he can feel the weight of her gaze bear down on him as she patiently awaits his answer.

And while immersed in thought, he cannot help but think about how easy it used to be to talk to her - how he could say _anything_ to her with complete ease, and without fear of judgement. Sure, in their youth she had judged him for his wild and impossible passions, but over time, they had gotten to a point where he never felt as though he was walking on eggshells with her, no matter how controversial the topic, or how she may object to his line of thinking. She had been his confidante and sounding board.

Now, he could barely hold a conversation with her.  

He glares at his boots and curses internally at how he has let the situation affect their relationship. Even without the features his dream pushed upon him, it had been a caring and wholesome, and comfortable relationship - just fine the way it was.

He _hates_ how far they have fallen.

“I’m not upset with you.”

Her voice cuts into his reverie, even and calm, reeling him back into present. But then, he looks up at her to find that her composed tone is only a clever mask, betrayed by the troubled knit of her brow, and the tight curl of her fists at her side.

“It’s just… is this how it’s going to be between us, from now on?”

Her voice cracks, and he frowns deeply at how the words come out so quietly almost _fearfully_ , as though she is gathering every ounce of courage in her possession to pose a question he honestly does not even have an answer to.

And the more he ponders on her words, the more they scare him.

She is vocalizing _doubt_ about their relationship - their _friendship_ \- and acknowledging that there existed a possibility that they two could stay in this strange limbo forever, all due to a stupid hangup he had, that even he could not understand.

He doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want _this_ \- this grating tension and inability to speak to one another.

And neither does she - he imagines it’s why her voice is shaking, it’s why her eyes are starting to glisten, and it’s why she sounds so _sad_.

He sets his jaw, because an ache far different from the swell of guilt he has become so accustomed to presses across his chest, and the urge to gather her into his arms is suddenly overwhelming.

“I’m…” she shakes her head lightly, “I… I shouldn’t have said those things.”

And the ache instantly _worsens_ and consumes him whole, and he is suddenly so _angry_ with himself.

 _‘You really shouldn’t have. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess,’_ the defiant, rational part of his brain says, though in large part, he does not agree with the sentiment _at all_ , and the conflicting sides throw his head into even more chaos.

“Mikasa… ” his tongue feels like lead as he says her name, and he is just there, just _there_ on the cusp of spilling it all out because he can’t _stand_ the fact that he is the reason for the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises on her fists, the frown on her face, the scar on her abdomen, the scar on her face, the scar on her _heart_ -

“Eren,” she says his name firmly, and it seems as if something within her has snapped, because she is shaking her head at the floor, her eyebrows arching up, and she is blinking more as though she is willing herself not to cry, and he feels his expression begin to mirror hers, his mouth curving into a deep frown.

“I _know_. I already know that you don’t want… all _that_. And… and I’m okay with that. I really am.”

 _‘How can you know that when I don’t even know that?!’_ he screams on the inside, because she _doesn’t_ know.

She doesn’t know a damn thing.  

She doesn’t know what he’s thought of every day since she said those words and kissed him and so _cruelly_ poisoned his mind with thoughts of a life beyond the hell they lived in - poisoned him with vivid thoughts of pleasure and pure happiness that he previously never even had the capacity to entertain. She does not know that he could not unsee the swollen pink of her lips, or the imagined pregnant swell of her belly, and she does not know that the thought has crossed his mind that _maybe_ someday, when their lives and humanity’s fate were not hanging in the balance, he could, _perhaps_ , want all _that_ too.

Her downcast eyes, travel up slowly to meet his pitiful gaze, and like that very night, her eyes search his, waiting for him to say something. And he just blinks back and swallows, unable to speak because he can’t very well say any of _that_.

And again, his silence is the reason she looks completely defeated and takes a step backwards - and his body, as though reflexively telling him not to make the same mistake twice, falls in step almost automatically, as he reaching reaches out to tug at her sleeve.

“Mikasa, let me -”

“ _Don’t_.”

The lone syllable is loud and cutting and stern, her voice shaking with restraint as she moves her arm out of his reach, charcoal blues meeting his bewildered gaze head on.

The rejection is more jarring than he expects it to be, and his hand drops slowly to his side, mouth hanging agape in dumb shock.

She stares at him, eyes shining, and her expression softens as she shakes her head.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says for the second time that day, and though her voice is much quieter, there is a distinct edge to it. “You don’t have to feel guilty, and you don’t have to make anything up to me.”

It is silent, and all he can do is listen because he is completely paralyzed.

Her mouth opens and closes as though she is trying to piece the next sentence together in her head, until finally, she shakes her head again, expression completely crestfallen.

“I’ve decided… I don’t need or want anything from you when this is all over.”

His stomach drops.

The words are, for some reason, _crushing_ , and they _hurt_ , and he doesn’t understand why, because he should be happy _,_ because this effectively erases the problem and enables him to get back to thinking about titans at all hours of the day, like he should be. 

He watches as she curls her fists at her side and opens her mouth to speak once more.

“All I want is…” there is hesitation in her tone, and he is on edge, anxiously anticipating her words, afraid of what they are or aren’t.

“All I want is for you to be able to _look at me_ again,” she says, voice shaking and barely above a whisper, and she blinks, restraining her tears.

“... just like you used to. That’s it. That’s all I want.” 

Again, she lifts her gaze to meet his, eyes shining with a mix of fear and sadness and controlled hope.

It all makes his heart ache with a new kind of pain he has never felt before.

“Mikasa…” he trails off, realizing that her name is his one word vocabulary at the moment, because it is all he can muster from the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that his mind and body cannot process.

But even while caught up in his inner turmoil, he knows he could very easily put this whole thing to rest if he just _agreed_ \- if he just reassured her that he could do as she wished.

… but he could not.

Because it dawns on him that he would _never_ be able to look at her the same way again. There was no way he could forget the words she had spoken, or unfeel the warmth of her kiss, or forget the hurricane of brand new thoughts and feelings her actions had spurred within him.

His silence speaks what he cannot, and she tears her gaze away from his, and nods at the floor.

“Thanks for checking on me,” she says politely, not evening lifting her head to look at him, before turning and walking away.

His body flinches, noting that the urge to follow her has now apparently become a reflex. But he stubbornly remains grounded and in place, purely out of fear, and the knowledge that nothing good could follow if he _did_ chase after her.

Eren watches her back as she leaves, and as she turns the corner, he is filled with an overwhelming mix of shame, guilt, and regret.

 

* * *

 ** _3._**  

 _He blinks, and his aching limbs are carrying him forward, palms and knees scraping against the moist grass._ He looks up, and all else is shrouded in a thick, grey mist - all but the path to the body lying stationary just a few feet away from him.

His eyes grow wide, heart jumping into his throat in recognition when he sights telltale raven hair and pale skin. In an instant, he is scampering frantically across the grass towards the still figure, heart drumming in his ears.

“ _Mikasa!_ ” he cries hoarsely as he reaches her. She is on her side, eyes closed, cape partially draped over her upper body. He slides an arm around her back, hoists her up so that she is half-resting on his lap, and her head limply lolls back, further contributing to the nausea he is beginning to feel.

“Oy, Mikasa,” he repeats shakily, urgency dripping from every syllable of her name as he gently jostles her in his arms, hoping against all hope that he is not too late.

He peels her cape back from her torso, and is immediately greeted with the horrifying sight of vibrant crimson, soaking up the bottom half of her white button down shirt. His eyes widen in horror, already beginning to burn from the sting of oncoming tears. He presses his mouth into a thin line and swallows, bringing a shaking hand to hover over the reddened, wet cloth - but he does not press his fingers to it, and instead snaps his head up to look at her face, and places a hand on her cheek.

“Hey! _HEY!_ Now’s not the time to sleep!” he barks, though his voice is already beginning to tremble as he leans in and lightly pats at her face with his palm.

_‘I’m too late I’m too late I’m too late I’m -’_

When her eyes flutter open to meet his, he is certain he has never felt more relieved in his entire life.

“Mikasa!” he exclaims. Her weary blue-greys blink up at him and breathe new life into him, sparking a rush of adrenaline.  

“Stay with me, alright? I’m gonna get you out of here,” he says with determination, before he lifts his hand from her cheek and to his mouth, about to bite into it - when she grabs his wrist.

  
He freezes, and is instantly irritated because they are on limited time, and she is, for whatever reason, wasting it away with her defiance.

But then, her grip tightens and cuts into his racing thoughts, and he finally really _looks_ at her - only to watch her shake her head.

His shock at the silent command lasts for only a split second, because he bares his teeth and snatches his wrist from her grasp, clutching at her sleeve to get a better grip of her in his arms, emerald greens blazing down at her with crazed and foolish determination all the while.

“I’m _not_ losing you,” he growls defiantly, before whipping his head up to look around the field.

Their surroundings are completely shrouded in fog, with next to no visibility within a five foot radius, and it is eerily dead silent. The lack of anything but mist makes it feel as though it is just the two of them, alone, for miles and miles.

“ARMIN?! _LEVI?!_ JEAN?!” he cries out. “Where the _FUCK_ are you?! _Mikasa_ is -”

Suddenly, her hand is on his cheek, thumb partially resting on the corner of his mouth, and she is forcibly redirecting his face and his gaze towards her. 

“Eren.”

He wants to snap at her, but the calmness in her voice, and the warmth of her skin on his, seem to put him under some sort of spell, as they reach inside and douse the fires that are raging within him.

She pulls her hand from his face and reaches to the one he has resting on her arm, and closes her fingers over the back of his hand, placing their linked clasp right above where the blood begins on her shirt. Her grip is somehow still warm and dry despite their cool and damp surroundings, and it is marginally comforting - but not enough. Though his heart rate has slowed at observing and falling in line with her gentle and collected movements, he registers that he is now shaking - and not at all from the cold.

“You’re… giving up?” he questions quietly, in disbelief.

She offers no reply to his question, and instead stares up at him, and the weight of her gaze is _heavy_ \- so scrutinizing, it feels as though she is trying to reach into his brain, or memorize his face, with the intensity of her gape. But he cannot be too sure of what she is thinking, as he was never very good at reading people - and now that he thinks of it, nor had he ever really tried to deconstruct her in such a way. He was always too busy staring off elsewhere, far beyond anything, or anyone in his immediate surroundings - including her.

But _now_ , all he can do is stare down at her and wonder what is going through her mind at a time like this - and he is mystified even further when there is an unexpected crack in her stoicism, the corners of her lips quirking upward into a small smile.

“You’re going to do it,” she rasps softly. “You’re going to save them. You’re going to win.”

He frowns.

The words and her soft expression are meant to comfort and reassure him, but they do just the opposite, because they sound and look like the beginnings of a goodbye that he has absolutely no desire to entertain.

“ _We!_ ” he snaps at the fading woman in his arms.

She does not even flinch.

“ _We’re_ going to win,” he insists, the hand under hers latching onto her shirt and fisting the cloth there.

He wants her to say “ _okay”_ and mean it, but she maintains her silence, pity and knowing in her tired eyes.

“ _We…_ ” he repeats weakly, insistently, _defeatedly_ , a lump beginning to form in his throat. He swallows it down, releases her shirt and turns his palm into hers, closing his fingers around her hand to return the clasp.

“We can’t do this without you,” he says as he shakes his head, and his voice is trembling, although he means for the words to come out steady and even.

She maintains her smile.

“You can. You all know what you’re doing, and _you_ … you’ve gotten so strong,” she says, and he can feel his eyes begin to sear and water yet again. “Stronger than me, even.” 

What a _joke_.

At least in his mind, it is a joke, because even if she did actually believe it, it simply wasn't true, and would never be true. 

Even now, while she is teetering on the brink of death, she is the one comforting _him_ \- even now, broken and half gone, she is _still_ the stronger one.

He is about to object and tell her just that, when her eyes begin to droop closed, and the action causes a paralyzing panic to ripple through him and shake him to his core.

“ _Hey_ ,” he whispers sharply, and there is a crack in the lone syllable as he shudders, a new kind of fear gripping at him.

He squeezes her hand hard, and her eyes flutter open once more, bringing him only mild relief, because he knows now, for certain,  _he_ _is going to lose her._

He can feel his eyes widen at the stark realization, feel them veil with tears, because the thought is _scary_  and so surreal that he is still somewhat in denial and disbelief. 

Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

They were supposed to take back their home, _together_.

His teeth gnash together as he fights hard against the urge to cry, and the strain and sorrow must be evident on his face because her brow is now arched in concern, and he _can’t take it_ , he can’t look at her like this, and _think_ of her like this, and he doesn’t want her to see him like this. So, he pulls her into his arms, and buries his face in her neck, in her warmth, in her scent - a clever way of hiding from her while remaining close.

They lay still for a moment, and he can feel her grip at the side of his shirt in an attempt to return the gentle hold, and he squeezes his eyes closed tightly to stop the deluge of tears that threatens to pour out.

In the silence, safe from the weight of her gaze, he is able to gather his thoughts. He acknowledges he cannot do much else for her now, but to make her last moments as pleasant as possible.

Gathering his strength and biting back the urge to break, he speaks.

“When this is all over,” he begins, mouth at her ear, voice low and hoarse, “let’s go back to Shiganshina. I’ll rebuild our house. Would you like that?”

He almost regrets the masochistic game of make-believe, as he knows it will likely leave him insane with what-ifs long after she has passed, but he remains determined to stay the course, and for once be strong for _her_.

But he second-guesses the idea when he feels her body tense in his hold.

He begins to regret it when there is no reply.

His worry causes him to pull back slightly to look at her face, and he can see that the words have cracked at her calm exterior, her tired eyes wide and glistening with a veil of unshed tears, her brow arching in a mix of surprise and subdued sorrow, and he wishes he could take back his words.

But _then_ , she nods with as much zest as one in her state can muster, mouth a small smile that is half rolling into a frown as she tries to hold back her tears, and he is pleased with himself, and at the same time ready to break down.

She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, hesitance clear on her face.

“What is it?” he asks softly, urging her forth, but the reluctance remains.

"I… can't say it."

He was not expecting _that_ \- especially not at a time like this.

"Sure you can," he insists gently, brow arching inquisitively.

"No, I - "

“Hey," he says softly, yet curtly, pulling his hand from their clasp to catch her chin between his thumb and index finger. "Now’s not the time to be difficult."

Her calm turns into that mix of puzzlement and sadness he's been seeing quite a bit of today, until the surprise on her face melts into an expression so incredibly wrought with restrained emotion.

Then, she speaks.

“Will you… build more bedrooms?” she asks quietly.

She falls silent, eyes searching his.  
  
He blinks back, waiting for her to say more.  
  
She does not.  
  
She only stares back up at him, as though expecting him to speak.  
  
So he does.  
  
"That's it?" he asks, unsure of why she had been so reluctant to share the small request. “I could do that,” he says with a small smile and a nod. “But, what for?”

He immediately wants to eat his words and swallow the question back and out of existence, because her mouth folds into a frown, and she purses her lips, her jaw setting as she clearly fights hard not to break down into tears. The reaction has him panicking internally, wracking his brain to surmise what she could _possibly_ want more bedrooms for - that it could have her reacting in such a way.

“For… Armin to move in?” he guesses.

There is a break in her doleful expression when she lets out a small laugh and shakes her head.

He frowns and thinks harder.

“For…”

Then, slowly, the only other alternative descends on him.

As it dawns on him, his eyebrows shoot up, his jaw going slack, and he feels his own eyes sting, a terrible pain spreading across his chest, and he stammers before he answers, hoping that he is _right_ so he does not seem stupid and overly bold and forward and presumptuous, and hoping that he is also _wrong_ because now is the absolute worst possible time to be thinking of such things.

“For… children?” he finally asks.

And the pain in his chest worsens as she nods, her face beginning to crumple, mouth stretching into a half smile, as she blinks stray tears from her eyes.

There is a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he pulls her body in closer, eyebrows arched pitiably in question.

“That’s what you want?” he asks, voice gruff and cracking, and he can feel his throat closing up.

She nods again, and he is coming apart at the seams.

“With... _me_?” he asks breathlessly, voice now low and unrecognizable even to himself.  

And _she nods_.

And something within him bursts and breaks and renders him unable to form words.

At his silence, she averts her gaze, sucking in a shaky breath - but immediately, he brings a hand back to her chin, tilting it up so she is forced to look him in the eye once more.

He stares into her shining charcoal blues and thinks: ‘ _Who else?’_

There was no one else he would rather build a home with - no one else he found more fit to be the mother of his children, and no one else he would rather share his _life_ with.

It is a terrifying and deeply _depressing_ realization to come to, but despite it all, he smiles and nods vigorously, pulling her in closer.

“Alright,” he says, feeling his face crumple, chest jerking as he bites back the overwhelming urge to cry, but he is failing _hard_ , until he has no choice but to let himself fail because suddenly, the tears are hot on his cheeks, streaming freely down his face. “I’m gonna build lots of bedrooms, then,” he says, trying hard to smile and speak clearly through his blubbering.

And now her expression begins to mirror his, her eyes growing wide as though not expecting his answer, brow arching pathetically as sobs begin to wrack her body. Like him, she is trying her best to keep it under control, but a soft whimper escapes from the back of her throat, and she claps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head as she begins to cry harder. Then, they stare at one another, both convulsing from their sobs, caught in an agreement that has forever changed the way they will remember one another, making plans that they will never get the chance to see through.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” Mikasa sobs into her own palm, each soft gasp stabbing at his heart, and he is in more pain than he had ever thought imaginable. 

Vision blurred by the seemingly endless stream of tears, he pulls her up into a tight embrace once more.

“I know,” he whispers into her hair through grit teeth, cinching his arms tighter around her, holding her closer as though if he grips tight enough, maybe she will stay.

They sit like that for a while, until their sobbing quiets down. When her body finally stops shaking from her crying, he feels fear rip through him - which is vanquished momentarily when he feels her turn her head and bump her nose into his temple.   

“Eren?” she whispers into his ear.

“Yeah?” he replies softly, sniffling, refusing to loosen his grip.

She is silent for a while, and again he fears that she might have already passed. But then, he feels her light, warm breath on his ear, feels her lips gently graze against it, feels her fingers fist tightly on his shirt.

“I… I love you.”

The words come out in a choked sob, and they should not at all come as a surprise, considering the empty promises they had made to one another not a moment ago. Yet, they still blindside him completely, and his emerald greens widen like saucers, and he is paralyzed in her grip.

She presses her forehead to the side of his, sobbing softly.

“I love you _so much_ ,” she says, voice a quivering, cracked whisper as she weeps, and the words _burn_ and _sting_ and truly _fuck him up_ , his head spinning, stomach turning in both horror and elation, and before he knows what he is doing, he is pulling back only enough to turn his head and press his mouth to hers.

And he finds he never wants to pull away, because, though she tastes of salt from their mingled tears, she is soft and warm, and touching her like this feels terrifyingly natural, and he is immediately filled with regret at discovering so, far too late.

When he pulls back, remaining close enough so that their noses are still nearly touching, her eyes flutter open, exhaustion mingling with her surprise.

She blinks up at him, eyes shining as she tugs weakly at the bottom of his shirt.  

“Again,” she commands in a whisper.

Despite the circumstances, he finds a small smile creep across his mouth before he presses a chaste kiss to her mouth, and he can feel fresh tears begin to stream down her cheeks.

He has barely pulled away when she repeats, “Again,” the corners of her lips quirking up in a slight smile at their sick and twisted and beautiful and tragic game.

He obliges, heart breaking and soaring all at once as he moves in, first pressing a kiss to her nose - making her eyes crinkle in watery mirth - before kissing her full on the mouth once more.

When he pulls back, her eyes are closed, a small smile on her face.

And there is silence.

“Mikasa,” he calls her name softly, lifting his other hand to brush her hair from her face.

She does not stir.

“Hey…” he says, voice quivering, blinking fresh tears from his eyes, feeling his throat close completely.

He shakes her lightly, until he is rocking her limp body in his arms like a madman, shouting down at her serene and unflinching face.

“ _HEY! Mikasa!_ Mikasa, _Mikasa -_ M-Mikasa,” he repeats her name like a mantra, the words slurring together as he shakes her.

Body wracking violently with his sobs, face now doused with tears, he bends to bury his face in her scarf, continuously calling her name, his whimpers muffled as he holds her limp, lifeless body in his arms.

And then, he pulls back, his vocal chords scraping together painfully as he heaves an anguished, guttural scream into the air.

 

* * *

He blinks, and he is bolting upright in his bed screaming, his vocal folds scraping and giving out as he claps a hand over his mouth. 

Chest heaving, he gulps for air, body drenched in sweat, face drenched in tears, body convulsing with sobs.

He digs his fingernails into his cheeks in the hopes that the prickle of pain will serve to halt the flow of tears, but the attempt is futile. And, despite his relief at his return to reality, the melancholy persists, and covers him like a thick blanket.

When his breathing slows, and his violent sobbing has died down into quiet weeping, he slumps back onto his bed and presses his forearm to his eyes to wipe away the moisture, cursing under his breath all the while.

Afraid to fall back asleep, he stares at the ceiling, the residual tears continuing to stream down his face.

And slowly, horrifying clarity begins to descend upon him.

_‘After we all just finish what we’ve set out to do, I’ll… I’ll have all the time in the world to work this nonsense out with her.’_

_‘Will you, though?’_

He stares dumbly at the ceiling for the remainder of the night.

  
Sleep only finds him when sunlight filters in through his curtains.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! Hopefully you now understand why this chapter took a while to pump out! It’s long as hell, and was quite difficult to write for multiple reasons - It's like a bunch of fanfics in one due to the nature of Eren's dreams; Eren (happy birthday to him, btw!) is difficult to write if you’re really trying to get into his head and redirect his one track mind; I have a pretty full plate with IRL thangs, so the schedule is packed (I make time to be shipping trash because priorities, duh); and I’m unfortunately a damn perfectionist. There are deleted scenes, and so many that were re-written multiple times because I just. Couldn’t. Get it. Right. If I actually took the time to make it so I was a hundred percent happy with it, y'all probably wouldn't even be reading this fic hahaha. So, I hope it all turned out okay :) 
> 
> The only thing that pushed me through this extremely strenuous writing process was re-reading your reviews, so thank you so much if you left one :) They were a reminder that all these words aren’t just being posted into a void, and all the hours and sleep lost on writing this fic aren’t for naught. 
> 
> I don’t want this author’s note to get too lengthy, so I’ll be posting more of an “author’s commentary” on my blog (I’m “a-heartablaze” on tumblr) in the coming days, if any of you are at all interested. I’ll further discuss my thought process behind a few features in this chapter, but for now, here are a few points:
> 
> \- MILFkasa rooftop/laundry scene was a nod to Carla.  
> \- There was an invisible Rivetra reference. Levi made Eren plant orange tulips because they remind him of Petra. Random?! Seems that way, but the reference goes a little further than me being shipping trash, which I’ll explain in detail later (it’s Eremika-relevant, I swear!)  
> \- If you noticed parallels here with scenes in earlier chapters, or saw repeated dialogue, ‘twas intentional :)
> 
> If you caught any of those points, or would like to discuss your own takes on them, please do share. I do loves me some shipping trash discussions :}
> 
> Anyways, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this. Questions? Comments? Do the thing. 
> 
> I am tired and delirious. And will roll around on the floor now. Goodbye.
> 
> P.S. The next chapter is going to be very sexually explicit. You have been forewarned :)


	4. Awaken

* * *

**TOUCH**

_IV. Awaken_

* * *

_It is as though it happens in slow motion–the frantic sway of his limbs, the rise and fall of his boots slamming into the dewy grass, his mouth opening wide, lungs heaving to scream her name over and over again._

_He pushes to call it louder and louder each time, because he cannot even hear himself under the thunderous thrum of his heart in his ears._

He slams the door shut behind him, a swirl of stars peppering his vision at the rush of blood to his head.

_Red. Red red red red, her shirt is so red, redder than the scarf wrapped around her neck, and he is still screaming her name in her face as he falls to his knees, and thank GOD if there even is one, because it has reached her, and she is prying her weak, heavy-lidded charcoal blues open to look up at him, eyes brimming with tears, blood leaking out of the side of her mouth, red red red, so red._

_And then he hears his own name leaving her cracked lips in a pathetic croak, and in syllables that are far too spaced out._

_It is the only thing he hears with any clarity above the pounding in his ears._

He ignores his dizziness and drowsiness and sets his jaw as he walks in long strides through the empty hallway.

_Without a second thought, he pulls her upright with one arm, sliding his other arm beneath her legs, immediately rising back onto his feet and beginning to run as fast as his feet could carry him._

_He feels her hand fist weakly in his shirt as she lifts her head slightly to look at him, eyes shining with tears._

" _Just…" the word carries on a breath, voice a weak rasp, "…leave me–"_

" _SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he growls down at her through the hot tears streaming down his face–tears that he had no clue were even there until he begun to taste them on his tongue, and feel them dribble down his chin._

 _She, too, looks as though she is about to burst into tears–not for his rudeness, he knows, but rather for their shared, unspoken fear–or,_ his _fear, he can't help but grimly think when he looks down at her and her head is lying limp, her eyes closed._

_Involuntarily, he lets out an anguished sound that is all at once a wail and a growl and a scream, as he summons the strength to run faster._

His strides grow faster and faster, fists clenching tightly at his sides.

_Then, she is lying at his knees unconscious, and he is hunched over her, popping each button of her dirty, bloodstained blouse open with shaking hands that begin to stain red because there is blood everywhere, everywhere, everywhere–all across her torso, on his hands, under his fingernails, on his shirt, red, so, so red, and though he is scowling and trying to be useful, he can see his tears dropping onto her bare skin and mingling with the blood there, because he is crying harder than he has in a very, very long time, and maybe he is instead being useless, because Hanji is suddenly pushing him out of the way and beginning to bark commands that, too, are muffled under the sound of his heart in his ears._

_On autopilot, he hears just well enough to obey._

And then he is _running_ to her, his shadow flitting across the stone floors, long and narrow against the orange glow flooding in through the windows.

_He is no longer crying, his fingers tightly clutching at the scarf in his lap when he watches the needle pierce her skin, thread tugging it back together, stitches pulled taut as the wound continues to gush red._

_And eventually it is over, and with trembling hands, he is left gently pushing Hanji out of the way to mop at the blood on Mikasa's skin, and to wind bandages around her waist gingerly, left shuddering when he watches blood blossom on the pure white of the newly placed gauze–all the while barely hearing Hanji blather on about a potential coma, about excessive blood loss, and other things he did not hear because he chose not to._

_Her voice is such ambient noise that he only realizes that she has left the room when Armin places a hand on his shoulder, a clean shirt in his other hand, azure eyes both grim and pitying._

_His own frown deepens as he nods at the blond, before gingerly lifting her upper body just enough for Armin to pull her limp arm through one clean shirt sleeve–and then the other._

His eyes begin to sting, and he bites back the hoarse feeling in his throat and he is so, _so_ tired, but more than he is tired he is _desperate_.

_When Armin is gone, he is left staring at her immobile form._

' _Wake up, wake up, wake up,' he commands her with the intensity of his gaze as he slides over next to her, bending over her to study her unconscious face._

_Save for the sound of her ragged breathing, the hour passes in silence._

He is shaking when he rounds the corner into her hallway–

_He slides his hand under her upper back, lifting her just slightly, his other hand tossing the scarf over her neck, then winding it loosely around twice over, before setting her back down gently._

_He looks down at his sloppy handiwork, feeling foolish for dressing her unconscious form._

_He lifts a hand to adjust the scarf, anyway._

–panting when he stands before her door–

_When her eyes flutter open into his, the exquisite relief that pulses through him is indescribable._

–fist trembling from how tightly it is clenched when he pounds his knuckle _hard_ against the wooden door, each hit pronounced and painful against his skin and bones, the tempo rapid to match his heartbeat, rhythm scattered and messy to match his current state.

_Then, there is a quiet, "Hi."_

_Then, a gentle, "Hi," in return._

_Then, a prolonged, wordless gaze that lasts for a long, long time–until her eyes shift down to the region of her wound._

When there is no answer, he tries again, banging on her door, the feeling of desperation so overwhelming that he feels his eyes burn and his throat start to close, and he knows he should swallow it all down and act less crazy, but there is no one even around, so he does just the opposite and instead smashes the side of his fist into the door in heavy, punctuated, _violent_ slams–

" _It's nothing."_

_The words come out in a rasped cough, and she licks her chapped lips, half-lidded charcoal blues locking onto distressed emerald greens. She attempts to roll onto her side and rise, but he halts her movements, pressing gently against her shoulder to push her back into the makeshift bed of piled blankets._

" _Shut up," he replies with a shake of his head._

–until his hand falls on _nothing_ , because the door is open.

The sight that meets his eyes renders him speechless and leaves him on the verge of tears.

He can sense her annoyance the minute she steps out from behind the door. But, as soon as her eyes fall on his, Mikasa wears several faces within the span of a few seconds–surprise, confusion, unease, concern, and then a cocktail of all at once.

"Eren? What's wrong?"

Just looking at her is overwhelming, as she is alive and well and unscathed–a far cry from the haggard, blood-soaked Mikasa of both his most recent dream, and the unpleasant memory he had far too vividly recalled enroute to her door.

"Eren…?"

He is _weak_ at the sound of his name on her lips, and at the curious peer of her grey blues, so clear and full of life. _Strong_ is the desire to let his knees buckle and slink down into a squat, so he can bury his head in his hands and revel in his relief.

"Eren…" she repeats his name a third time cautiously, taking a half step forward with a raised hand–at which he reflexively and evasively jerks a half step back, out of fear that even the lightest of touches might reduce him to a sobbing and blubbering idiot.

But then _hurt_ flits across her face, there and gone in a blink, and he is instantly filled with guilt and regret, because his defensive maneuvering has been misinterpreted, and has once again brought about the Eren and Mikasa of the past week–a tense mix of push and pull, unspoken mandatory physical distances, jerk reactions, and misunderstanding upon misunderstanding, with now yet another to add to the list.

Eager to vanquish the tension he had unintentionally reinstated between them, he steps back into place and clears his throat.

"Nothing," he finally croaks, voice gravelled and groggy, probably making it evident that he had just roused from a daylong slumber.

"Everything's–yeah," he continues, determined to act as normal as possible, although his eyes are already darting nervously between hers and the floor as he clears his throat again. "I'm good. I just wanted to see you–I mean, check up on you. Check up on how you're doing. Feeling. Yeah."

' _Smooth.'_

The scrutinizing crease of her brow eases only slightly at the half-truth, her gaze remaining vigilant.

"Oh... " Mikasa replies quietly, the tentative blink of her grey blues reflecting the disbelief in her voice.

As her gaze lingers, it is clear she is working hard to maintain neutrality and subdue the judgement beginning to shade her features, and he cannot help his irritation at the scrutiny. But, by the time her eyes scan up to his chest, his initial annoyance at being sized up quickly fades into self-consciousness, leaving him fully aware of his unkempt appearance.

He then begins to think that _perhaps_ her overly cautious behavior was at least _somewhat_ justified.

After all, he _had_ avoided her the entire week.

And he _had_ nearly broken down her door with his crazed knocking–or, door-punching, really.

And she _had_ opened it to find him clad in pajama pants and a crumpled shirt, hair mussed, dark circles beneath his eyes, face dour with exhaustion, dumbly gawking at her in silence, then saying stammering uncharacteristically thoughtful things–right after jerking away from her like a frightened animal the moment she moved just the slightest bit closer.

He groans inwardly and nearly grimaces at the string of foolish behavior, but withholds the reaction for fear of having her misinterpret it and landing them back at square one.

"So, your wound," he begins, in an attempt to derail her train of thought from whatever conclusions she was drawing from his crazed appearance and behavior. "How's that doing?"

"It's healing well..." Mikasa replies _slowly_ , eyebrow arching inquisitively.

He nods in reply, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

"Oh. Good."

"Eren," she follows up instantly, giving him another quick once over, "Are you sure you're okay? You look…"

He sees the gears begin to turn as her eyes drop down to his chest and stare past it as she thinks of what to say. Not two seconds in, he is certain she is thinking of a less abrasive way to say:

"… like shit?"

His words come out nonchalant, and it is perhaps the most natural he has sounded this entire time (swearing _was_ his forte, after all). Apparently agreeing, Mikasa looks back up, her expression slightly relieved at his intervention, as she gives him a slight nod and shrugs a shoulder.

"Well…yes," she replies curtly, the concern never leaving her face, or her tone.

The response is perhaps the first time he is absolutely _certain_ he is awake, as the Mikasa in his dreams was never quite as dry or blunt. He clenches his jaw to bite back a smile at the thought, and is about to assure her that he is alright despite his crazy appearance. But he then gives pause when, out of nowhere, her eyes widen at the realization of _something_ , her expression suddenly a mix of guilt and knowing.

"Did I give you something?" she asks worriedly. "I was still sick yesterday, I–"

" _No_ ," he cuts in, shaking his head sharply. While his sorry state was _indirectly_ her doing, they had seen each other twice the entire week–and at both times, had stayed a minimum of three feet away from each other, making the passing of any sickness near impossible.

"No, no, you didn't," he continues to reassure her when the intensity of her concern and guilt does not lessen, because _of course_ she assumed it was her fault. "It's..."

He pauses, realizing that the only honest end to the sentence is a long-winded explanation of _things_ he still did not know how to articulate. He flicks his eyes down to the floor to escape her probing gaze, anxiety building as he flounders for an explanation.

"Uh…"

He scratches the back of his head, now studying a scratch on the tip of his shoe as he begins to sweat.

"Do you need your bandages changed?" he blurts.

' _Why that? WHY THAT?'_ he thinks, withholding a wince at the incredibly random offer.

Eren looks back up at her to gauge her reaction, and perhaps retract the offer, or follow up it up with some sort of explanation that he does not yet have.

When he meets her eyes, pure confusion has taken place of her guilt.

"Sasha's coming after dinner to take care of it," she says, words drawn out, gaze discerning as though she is attempting to deconstruct his true motives.

"Oh," he replies with a nod, briefly glancing at his shoes before looking back up at her. "You're… not having dinner?"

' _HOW is that relevant to anything?! HOW? WHY CAN'T YOU SPEAK NORMAL?!'_ he seethes at himself internally.

Again Mikasa arches an eyebrow at the random line of questioning, and he is left biting his tongue and inwardly cringing at his inability to partake in a normal social interaction with the woman he had grown up with, and had recently decided he wanted to grow old with.

"I ate a little earlier. I was planning on sleeping early tonight," she says, clearly still confused about what was taking place.

" _Oh_ ," he nods again, "Shit, sorry, were you just about to–?"

"Oh, no, no. Not yet."

"Oh, okay."

Silence.

A few beats into the silence, he realizes that he is _still_ bobbing his head up and down needlessly.

"Well," he begins, halting his nod, unnerved at the silence and his own overwhelming awkwardness, and her heavy, borderline judgemental gaze, "I could just help you with all that now if you want," he offers, gesturing at her abdomen. "So you don't have to wait for Sasha. Besides, I kind of still owe you, so–"

The rest of the sentence dies in his mouth, because the confusion on her face fades into disappointment–albeit _subtly_ to one unfamiliar with the workings of Mikasa's generally unexpressive nature–sending his insides into a panicked frenzy at his stupidity, because he should have _known_ she would read such words as an _obligatory_ peace offering.

"Uh," he shakes his head, "No, I mean–"

"It's alright, I can wait for Sasha," she says firmly, impressively masking her hurt, though he knows better, because he can hear her voice waver in the slightest. "She'll be done in an hour I think, so–"

"I want to," he interrupts, suddenly several paces closer, his hand plastered on her door frame, trying not to read into the way she reflexively leans back to put more distance between them.

She blinks up at him, mouth falling agape at his erratic behavior, his sudden enthusiasm for changing her bandages likely throwing her in for a loop.

His eyes lock onto hers as he nods.

"It's the least I could–" he cuts himself short, careful not to throw another _I owe you_ -like phrase into the fray. He wonders if she has even caught his near-slip up, but sees that she is instead too busy being bewildered by his craziness, and is thus hanging on his every word in confused anticipation.

"I… just want to."

There is barely a shift in her expression, and she looks troubled and even more reluctant, brow crinkling further in confusion.

" _Please_ ," he follows up, voice uncharacteristically soft in a way that has her eyes widening even further in puzzlement.

But then, she steps backward and pushes the door further open in invitation. He realizes, once he steps through the threshhold, that she has likely given in more out of her concern for _him_.

* * *

The final dregs of daylight filter in through her curtains, bathing her room in a warm, amber glow. As he peers out the translucent curtains, he is reminded that he has slept the entire day away, and is irritated at himself anew. However, his annoyance lasts only briefly, clipped by the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, reminding him of just where he is standing.

And then it is silent.

 _Incredibly_ silent.

It is more silent than any hush he has ever uncomfortably sat in, because he can hear his own heartbeat–can hear the scuffle of her shoes against the floor as she turns around to set her _heavy_ stone-blue gaze on his back, weighing him down in place, self consciousness prickling his skin and throwing the rhythm of his now extremely audible breathing.

It is almost suffocating, being trapped in this small box of a room with her, feeling her eyes bore into the back of his head. The silence that has settled over them is thick and so very _full_ of tension and things gone unsaid, and it feels as though they two are the only souls for miles and miles, now insulated from all else–from the white noise left behind in the hallway, light years away from the dining hall filled with their feasting comrades.

Yet, in all his discomfort, he knows that there is nowhere else he would rather be.

The wood creaks beneath his shoes, cracking the silence as he turns to meet her gaze.

Then, they look at one another wordlessly, and he swallows as the weight of her gaze shifts now to his eyes, heavy on him, heavy _in_ him, as she gestures briefly towards her bed.

"You can sit," Mikasa says quietly, as though with a reverence for the silence that has become their constant.

He finds it strange that her cheeks do not tint pink at the invitation, while he himself begins to grow warm. The levity of her words, and how casually she throws her hand this way, throws her words that way, is like it's _normal_ –like she has invited him to lounge there casually many times before, and like she has invited him to fall asleep there next to her time and time again.

Now that he thinks of it, she hadnever _invited_ him to do so–he had just done both things in the past several times over, without invitation. However, during such times, he had done so without any reservations, or any thought of the inappropriacy behind a young man sharing a warm bed with a young woman. Back then, they were merely childhood friends who had slept next to one another–of course, maintaining a significant amount of space between their bodies. Sometimes they had done so out of necessity, and other times, to lie in the presence of another in the wake of any nightmares, or days that had been particularly horrific.

But things were different now–different enough that it is with utmost unease and stiffness that he stalks over to the pristine mattress and takes his place upon it, pretending he does not feel like he is encroaching on some forbidden space.

When he settles onto the sheets, his eyes fall on Mikasa's back as she makes her way across the room to rummage through her desk drawers, watching as she deposits a few supplies onto the surface. She then picks up a matchbox to tend to to the candles sitting atop the corner of her desk, he surmises, in preparation for nightfall.

The strike of the match against the small box rips through the silence, and Eren watches as she deftly touches the small flame to the candles, with all the finesse she maintained when dicing titans to bits, and with all the grace she maintained when doing…well, anything.

She then waves the stub, the flame dying out, the warm, burnt scent of a recently extinguished matchstick invading his nostrils, permeating the room's familiar and clean and pleasantscent.

His shoulders begin to relax into a slump, body loosening in the slightest, a strange sense of calm washing over him. Mikasa then gathers the supplies into her arms, and that same sense of calm almost instantly evaporates the minute she turns and makes eye contact with him and begins to stride in his direction.

Then she is much closer, gingerly setting the items down next to the lantern and the water basin atop her nightstand.

"So," she begins, voice startling when it cuts the silence, though her tone is light and passive.

She plucks a stub from her matchbox.

"Are you…?" she trails off, striking at the box.

No flame ignites, and her sentence remains unfinished.

He frowns.

Mikasa strikes again, the flame failing to ignite again, and she maintains her silence, as he begins to bounce his leg restlessly.

Then, she strikes _again_ –and this time, the wooden stub snaps in half between her thumb and forefinger, and he is left grinding his teeth in impatience, but _trying_ , for once in his life, not to act on it.

Without complaint or even a grumble, Mikasa pulls another match out of the box, her eyes briefly meeting his, causing his gaze to immediately flinch back down to the box in her hand, as though he has been caught staring.

"What is it?" he blurts sharply and quietly, face warming as she strikes again–a newborn flame finally dancing at the tip of the small, wooden stub.

"You… " she begins without completion, yet again, as she touches the flame to the oil lantern's wick, face now screwed in focus, because it is not catching as easily as it did on the candles she had lit just moments ago.

His _soul_ –the impatience is gnawing at his _soul_ , just as the flame is gnawing away at the stub in her grasp, stubbornly refusing to catch onto the wick. He looks back up at her to urge her to ' _finish your goddamn thought already'_. But then, heforgets the demand, too busy observing that she is perhaps even more stubborn than the flame that refuses to cooperate, because she refuses to retract her hand even though it is just _shy_ of licking her fingertips.

How _Mikasa_ , of her–to be so invested in the act of lighting a lamp, and to remain unfazed, even when the heat is beginning to sting her skin.

And _indeed_ , how Mikasa of her, because she has succeeded, the room suddenly much brighter, her face relaxing as she swings her wrist to put out the flame between her fingers, that same strong, burnt scent filling the air once more as she looks back at him, and gives pause.

"... Never mind," she murmurs.

"What is it?" he repeats, taking care not to sound _too_ eager, although his curiosity is once more at its peak–as is his annoyance, because she is shaking her head and doing that _thing_ again, where she broaches a topic, and retracts it.

He fumes internally, impatience spiking.

"Fine," he says instead, somehow managing to be both brusque and gentle as he pats the space next to him on the bed.

"Come– _what?_ " he snaps in response to the puzzlement that takes over on her face.

Eren feels his face warm as she shakes her head silently, no longer even attempting to mask her bewilderment.

"Nothing," she says quietly, as she slides out of her shoes and crawls onto the bed.

As she settles in and begins to shrug off her cardigan, he reaches for the medical supplies on her nightstand, not a few seconds later turning to find her popping the top button of her blouse free.

He freezes, and suddenly he is unsure of whether he is even breathing anymore, because his eyes are locked onto her fingers as she pops another button free, in effect loosening her blouse and giving just the _suggestion_ of smooth, beige skin. His jaw tightens, teeth grit, mouth locked into a frown as she undoes _another_ button, bringing the defined dips of her collarbone into view. And then another button goes and his palms grow damp, the modestly clothed swell of her breasts exposed, followed by the top half of her defined abdomen, the firelight playing shadows on the sharp curves of her toned flesh, and the room is already insufferably _hot_ when she undoes the _next_ button, bringing into view…

Her _bandages_.

His stomach drops.

' _You're a fucking pig, Eren.'_

Disgusted with himself for ever _daring_ to look at her in such a way, he averts his gaze, instead staring at an empty space on the mattress, all the while silently fuming at himself. He then remembers that it was only a few days ago that he had opened her blouse with his own hands–which were all slick with her blood, at the time.

Exhaling sharply through his nose at his own self-loathing, he looks back up to find her popping the last button free, the urge to ogle completely replaced by pure, unfiltered shame.

"Ready?"

Her voice cuts into his thoughts, and he looks up to find not a single hint of embarrassment or discomfort on her face, making his leering from moments ago even more shameful.

"Lie down," he responds, quietly.

Curiosity still etched on her face, she obeys the solemn command without question, and reclines back onto the mattress, raven head sinking into her pillow.

"Sasha's been doing okay with it?" he asks, gently brushing her blouse further open to expose her entire torso, relieved at how normal it all begins to feel. Newfound feelings aside, they had, after all, tended to one another's wounds while half naked numerous times.

"Not too bad," she replies as he picks up the scissors on her nightstand, and begins to snip away at the bandages.

"That's not the same as 'good'," he mutters as he slices through the last piece and taps his fingers to her side–at which she knows to arch her back just enough for him to pull the cut up bandage free.

"Mmm. I prefer the way you do it."

He wishes she hadn't been looking at him while saying such a thing, because he _knows_ he is now blushing.

"Then… I'll do it from now on," he mumbles in reply, not daring to make eye contact with her, instead focusing on the russett-spotted gauze resting atop her wound, as he reaches down to peel it back. Slowly, the unsightly garble of raised, mauve tissue comes into view, threaded through with stitches, the edges of the wound puckering against her otherwise smooth and unblemished beige skin.

A wave of nausea washes over him at the sight _–_ not at its grotesqueness, but rather at the reminder that he had trivialized the injury through his extremely insensitive behavior over the past week. The thought leaves him _livid_ and unable to look away, lips curving into a deep frown, face darkening considerably as he all but glares down at the wound.

"It's ugly," Mikasa says, voice ripping him from his trance, her words blunt and emotionless as though stating a common fact, though they are softly spoken.

Almost immediately, he shakes his head sharply, eyes darting back up to her face.

" _No_ ," Eren begins, reaching into the water basin at her bedside, before pulling the rag from the bowl, and squeezing it with one hand until it is wrung damp, "No _…_ "

' _No part of you is ugly,'_ he nearly says before he catches himself.

He dabs the area around the wound gently with the rag, his face warming at the disgustingly saccharine thought _–_ one that he believed wholeheartedly, despite its sappiness. Even with part of her flesh mangled, she was still a finely tuned walking weapon and a sight to behold, if his ogling moments ago was of any indication.

Of course, he'd be hard-pressed to _verbalize_ such a thought.

"It's a wound. It's not supposed to be pretty," he mumbles instead, before tossing the rag back into the brass bowl. He then picks up a small jar of ointment and begins to unscrew it, all the while wilting under her probing gaze _–_ the likes of which the Eren of last week would have snapped at with a brash _'CUT IT OUT'_ , because it was making the typically uncomplicated task of unscrewing a bottle cap far more difficult. However, in a demonstration of great self control, he instead bites his tongue and continues to avoid her eyes, carrying on in silence as he finally uncaps the bottle, and scoops out a sizable dollop of ointment with his fingers, before setting the bottle back onto her bedside table.

As gently as possible, he presses his ointment-caked fingers to the periphery of the wound, brow scrunched in concentration as he works under the weight of her unrelenting gaze. Slowly, he grows accustomed to the silence, finding it more comforting than suffocating–until Mikasa cuts into it with an innocuous:

"What happened?"

He stiffens completely, not daring to meet her gaze head on.

"What do you mean?" he deflects, continuing to gently rub his fingers in small circles against her skin, avoiding the still-tender areas of the wound, his face screwed in concentration.

"Well… you were about to break my door down," she says softly, in the way one does when broaching a potentially sensitive topic.

Eren frowns, staring thoughtfully at the wound, maintaining his silence as he continues to work–mostly because he has no idea how to respond.

"And you look really awful," she adds on, nonchalantly.

He snorts, finding the bluntness refreshing, especially after an entire week of walking on eggshells around one another.

"I've been getting that a lot lately," he scoffs.

" _Eren_."

Suddenly, her fingers, soft and strong, are curled gently around his wrist, and he is still as stone in her grip.

His eyes snap down to the hold, where he is forced take stock of her purpled knuckles, which were yet _another_ mark that was indirectly his doing.

He frowns deeply.

" _Hey_ ," she calls his attention before his mind can spin out into another guilt-ridden trance, and she is suddenly hoisting herself up onto her elbow, half-sitting up. His eyes flick to hers at the shift, about to command that she lie down and not move at all until he is finished, but the immense concern on her face squashes any attempt at being abrasive or commanding.

"What's wrong?"

 _Soft_ , her voice is so soft that the hairs on his arms stand on end, every syllable so infused with worry, grey-blues showcasing that rare emotion that is reserved only for him, and it all reaches into him and makes him want to tell her _everything_ –every single thing he has been thinking, every single thing he has realized, but it is just _too much_ , and he doesn't even know how or where to start, or if such thoughts would even be well received after a week of full-blown douchebaggery.

So, he scowls and clears his throat.

"Lie down," he commands, shaken at how difficult it is to force his face into a glower while staring her in the eye, when all he wants to do is fall apart in front of her.

He pulls his wrist from her grip, his stomach instantly dropping in regret once he does so. But, he takes comfort in the lack of sadness on her face at the action, finding only defiance on her face, as she disobeys and remains resting on her elbow, eyes challenging, much like that night, in the moments right before she had kissed him.

He tears his eyes from hers, looking back down at her wound, not even attempting to partake in a staring contest this time, knowing that he would undoubtedly lose.

"Please?" he begrudgingly entreats the tear on her abdomen.

When she doesn't move an inch, he chances another imploring look at her, softening his scowl.

With a frown, she follows suit and lies back down.

Eren continues his work in silence, no longer minding the feel of her gaze drilling holes into his skull, for he is too preoccupied with thinking about how to say _things_ , because he _has to,_ because she _asked_. He did not exactly have a plan when he ran to her in a panic, the moment he woke. His anxiety and desperation had made all rational thought and any foresight impossible, now leaving him completely unprepared to give any sort of speech. However, despite his apprehension, he figures _now_ is as good a time as ever to apologize and explain himself and tell her… _things_.

When he has finished applying the ointment, he readies himself to speak, summoning his courage as he reaches into the water basin to wipe his fingers off on the rag, letting his mouth drop open as he grabs the new gauze and gingerly places it over her wound.

He stares down at the dull white square for a moment before speaking, deciding to be honest, and begin with the very reason he had sprinted to her and nearly broke down her door.

"I just wanted to see you."

And even just the _seep_ of honesty, however vague, alleviates some of the pressure that has been sitting on his chest.

It makes him brave enough to look at her face–

At her incredibly unimpressed, underwhelmed, and unconvinced face.

" _What?_ " he snaps incredulously, first _insulted_ that she found his honesty about _feelings_ unimpressive and underwhelming; then, _relieved_ at her reaction, because her clear disbelief roused his argumentative nature, and with it, the needto convince her that he was being truthful.

"I'm serious," he follows up sternly.

"That's why you were punching my door?" she inquires flatly.

"Well that's how badly I–!" he spits defiantly before catching himself, for some reason still not brave enough to say, ' _That's how badly I wanted to see you_.'

He stammers, staring at her unchanging expression, frustrated at his inability to convince her. But then, he acknowledges his dramatics, how he randomly wound up changing her bandages, and how absurd their situation must have seemed to her, after an entire week of rude avoidance.

He is left swearing under his breath, dropping his attempt to finish the sentence altogether, as he begins to unfurl the end of the bandage roll while avoiding her gaze.

"Eren," she tries to prompt him for an end to his sentence, but he says nothing as he presses the bandage to her abdomen, pulling it taut across the lean stretch of skin, at which she obediently arches her back to let him pull the roll under.

He remains silent as he leans closer, his hand guiding the bandage along the soft skin of her back, her peer heavy on his face, his heartrate beginning to accelerate for some stupid reason.

"I had a bad dream," he murmurs as he continues to work, figuring that he should say _something_ before he can focus on how fast his heart is starting to beat.

And then it is like a weight has been lifted, because he does not have to look at her to _feel_ her expression shift into one of slight surprise and understanding.

"Oh."

And now _she_ is silent, apparently finding the answer valid. He figured she might, as in their youth, when she had first started living with his family, he had woken many nights to find her teary-eyed and nearly hyperventilating, shaken from her nightmares. At such times he would stay close at her bedside, eyes on hers, hand on hers, until she fell back asleep. Then, once Shiganshina had fallen, she had returned the favor in kind when _he_ was the one tossing and turning and crying on a regular basis, waking to her warm, pitying charcoal-blues, as she used her sleeve to dry his tear-streaked face, fingers loosely curled around his wrist until he fell back asleep.

However, it had been _years_ since they had sought one another's comfort in such a way.

It is likely why she is staring at him with such concern in her eyes, deducing that whatever had led him to her door must have been something particularly horrific–which it _was_.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks hesitantly.

The gauze begins to disappear with each turn of the bandage around her torso, the seconds passing by in silence, neither saying a thing as he continues to work.

"We don't have to talk about it if–"

"It was about _this_ ," he says, smoothing the bandage over her abdomen as he winds over and under again, his stomach fluttering, not only because of the feel of her warm skin against his palm and the backs of his fingers each time he goes around, but at the impending truths he is going to have to relay soon.

Silently, she looks back at him in understanding, and he feels the tension ease _slightly_ in her body, as he winds the last piece back around and tucks it into place.

"Oh," her voice finally comes softly, with understanding.

He sighs heavily, lifting a hand to smooth out a slight fold on one of the bandages as he mentally prepares himself to say more.

He thinks he might start by describing the dream, and then segue into the conclusions he had drawn from there–but his train of thought stops abruptly when she reaches for his hand, and slides her fingers into the gaps between his.

His mouth drops ajar as he stares and stares at their hands loosely entwined across her abdomen, heart fluttering when she squeezes his fingers between hers, and he is left mute, without a clue as to what to say or do in response. Slowly, his eyes trail back up to find unbridled concern on her face, eyes reading _'are you okay?'_ , her gentle clasp conveying, _'I'm here'_. His eyebrows arch pitifully despite his best efforts not to break, and it is the first time in a long time their eyes are locked in something that is _not_ a stubborn staring contest. The warmth and tenderness of both her peer and her grip then begin to dissolve the tension that had both of them on edge ever since he had stepped into the room.

Mouth agape, he shakes his head and curls his fingers slowly to squeeze her hand back.

"I'm an asshole," he blurts.

She quirks an eyebrow at the remark that certainly did not suit the warm, comforting hush that had settled over them. But she does not say anything, only continuing to stare on–either in agreement with the statement, or to let him continue speaking.

"I'm sorry," he says, squeezing her hand again, eyes flicking down to their lock, where he once again notes the purple tint of skin shading her knuckles. He pulls her hand up to get a closer look, with a shake of his head.

"This _too_ , this is…" he murmurs under his breath, running his fingertips over the bruised region with his other hand, with a shake of his head. "I'm _such_ an–"

"Eren," Mikasa says sharply, sitting upright, _too_ suddenly, and so close that he can feel the warmth radiating off of her body.

" _This_ ," she says squeezing his hand, gesturing at the bruises they are both staring at, "this was _me_ being stupid. This was _me_ dealing with how I felt in my own way–"

"Yeah, because of _me_. Can you just let me have this one? I was complete dick about everything," he says, irritated, because _again_ she is letting him get away with murder, blaming herself for something he most definitely was responsible for. "I fucked up. Can't you just–can't we just agree on that?"

"But it was _my_ fault you acted that way–"

" _No_ , it–"

"I said and didthings I shouldn't have, and–"

"Because I _pushed_ you to–"

"It doesn't _matter_ ," she says with a shake of her head, and he does not even notice that they have been holding hands the entire time, until she pulls her hand back into her lap, leaving him much colder.

"I didn't have to respond or give in like that, and… I _know_ you. I should've known saying those things and doing… _that_ would…"

She trails off, no longer looking at him, and he has to wonder what exactly she means when she says "knows" him.

Then, she sighs.

"I don't blame you for acting the way you did, alright?" she says with finality. "I… I just wish we could put this all behind us."

He blinks down at her, unable to help the nerves that begin to crop up–both at having to say more _things_ , and at the possibility that she had changed her mind about him.

"Well… we can't," he says sternly, face dropping into a scowl in preparation of saying _actual_ _things_ this time, and his heart falters just a bit at the sadness on her face, and the shine in her eyes as she frowns down at the foot of her bed.

"But I… " she begins, expression crestfallen, eyes beginning to gloss over.

' _... What? Why_ –? _'_

"I'm _sorry_ ," she says, brow scrunched as she visibly fights her tears with a defeated shake of her head, making it clear that she has interpreted his reply differently.

' _FUCK.'_

"I know I messed up, but–"

In a blink, his fingers are cinched tightly around her wrist, and she whips her head up to look him in the eye, and he has no idea what to say next, or how to even begin to say all that he must, but in his panic to stop the downward spiral of this poor attempt at a confession, he begins with:

" _Stop_ that."

Silence ensues as he searches her eyes, and they grow even _more_ sorrowful, because he has said the wrong thing yet _again_ , and he is left wondering _why_ is he so awful at this. So far, all he had managed to do was make it seem like he was about to lecture her, and make her feel _worse_ , and he can tell as much from the way the tears are continuing to brim at her eyes, and at how her eyebrows twitch as though she is resisting the urge to fall to pieces in front of him–which then shoot up to her hairline, eyes wide and panicked at the sound of a rapidfire knock at her door, followed by a click and a sing-songy:

"Knock _knoooock_ –OH."

He does not even have time to blink before Mikasa tears her wrist from his grip, her expression flipping back to relatively neutral, as she looks towards the door. His eyes linger on her face momentarily, as he registers the instant switch, finding it _eerie_ , most especially after the internal war of emotions he had just seen play out on her face.

He then follows her gaze to the door, to find a wide-eyed Sasha peering in.

He frowns, not even attempting to soften the glare he is already shooting her way.

"Sorry! Um–didn't mean to interrupt," Sasha says through nervous laughter, cheeks tinted pink, as she makes brief eye contact with him, already seeming to understand her transgression, "I was just–"

"You're not interrupting anything," Mikasa says a little too brusquely for his tastes, only adding onto his irritation, because Sasha had _indeed_ interrupted something.

"Eren was available a little earlier to replace my bandages. We're just finishing up here."

' _Available,'_ he scoffs internally, for some reason annoyed at the word choice.

"Oh. Great, then!" Sasha says with a nod, flustered as she shifts back out of the room, pulling the door along with her. "I'm gonna–okay! Yeah," she continues, as she pulls it closed.

And again they are left alone in the silence, both blinking at the door, both left discombobulated at the unexpected respite from the tension that had just peaked between them.

But with the silence, that same tension fills the air once again, only heightening the moment Mikasa turns back to him, face _close_ despite the coolness in her gaze. And suddenly, it occurs to him what Sasha might have _thought_ she had walked in on, considering the candlelit room, their relatively intimate position upon Mikasa's bed–not to mention the fact that her shirt was hanging wide open, and that his hand had been on her wrist.

Eren's face warms, but he has little time to be embarrassed, because she is already plucking her cardigan from her bed side, moving to shift past him and off of the bed.

"Thank you," she says quietly, not even looking up at him.

Quickly, he blocks her path, and even _then_ she refuses to look at him.

"We're not done talking," he says firmly, the ache of guilt swelling through him at the way she refuses to meet his gaze.

She maintains her silence, her mouth dropping open as she stares down at a patch of bedsheet between them.

"I… don't really know what else there is to say," Mikasa says quietly, defeatedly, eyes at his chest.

"I really don't know how to fix this, and I… I really want to," she says, voice thick with frustration, in a way that makes his heart _ache_.

"There's nothing to fix," he replies, hoping it is the right thing to say–but it is _not_ because his tone is unintentionally gruff, and when she finally looks up to meet his gaze, she looks so incredibly _heartbroken_ that it makes his mouth drop ajar in shock, because he is hurting her even _more_ and doing the exact _opposite_ of what he is trying to accomplish.

" _Mikasa_ ," he says her name in a harsh whisper, panic taking over because he no longer knows what to say. He places his hands on her arms, fingers squeezing gently as he blinks rapidly, wishing he had even _half_ the finesse and suave of his dream self when it came to saying _things_.

She opens her mouth to speak again, at which he immediately shakes his head sharply.

"Shut up," he blurts harshly, internally kicking himself at the reflexive reply because her face falls even _more_ , and he is making it _worse_ even though he didn't know it could get any worse, and now he is _panicking_ inside.

He grits his teeth and exhales sharply through his nostrils, trying to gather his thoughts, mouth dropping open in the hopes that all that he needed to say would fall from his lips in an articulate deluge–but, nothing comes because he is not _good_ at this, and he doesn't know how to get her to understand.

But then, his eyes drop to her mouth and he _does_ know how to make her understand–the method she had so boldly used on him and his boneheaded self just days ago.

He is left scowling, and swallowing, his heart thudding in his ears, his internal monologue chanting, _'I don't know I don't know I don't know should I, I don't know'_ and he wonders how she had ever mustered up the courage to do what she had.

Steeling himself, he huffs out sharply through his nose once more, now all but glaring at her mouth, as he begins to lean forward. Almost immediately, he feels her muscles tense in his grip, her entire body going rigid, her previously sorrowful charcoal blues widening in bemusement.

Even so, she says nothing, remaining as still as a statue, no matter how much closer he inches–not shifting, even when he is close enough to note that she is holding her breath.

And then the tip of his nose brushes hers, and he _feels_ her ask, "What are you doing?", the words a tremulous, warm breath on his mouth, his heart a war drum banging violently in his ears.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" he manages to whisper back, feeling as though he might pass out from all the blood rapidly rushing to his face. His nose slides against hers in his torturously slow approach, his heart pounding against his ribcage, face hot, room hot, palms growing clammy on her sleeves–yet, _still_ , he is scowling in an attempt to cover up his nervousness.

" _Why_?" he feels her whisper onto his mouth, the single word shaky as though she is on the cusp of breaking down into tears. "You–"

The beginning of the next word is muffled and lost as he closes the space between them, decisively pressing his lips to hers, his eyes screwed shut as though he has just made an terrifying, yet exhilarating, running jump off of a cliff and into cold waters. Yet, despite the shudder that runs up his spine, he is anything but cold because she is _warm_ , so, so warm, her mouth soft and familiar, and the sensation is so _pleasant_ , despite how her lips remain motionless against his, and how her body remains tightly wound in his hands.

It is after a few beats too long that her lack of reciprocation leaves him embarrassed and defeated enough to give in, his lips peeling off of hers _slowly_ –but then, her palm is soft on his jaw, fingers curling round the back of his neck as she holds him in place so that he only gets far enough so that the tip of his nose is at hers.

Eren then opens his eyes slowly to find Mikasa's downcast, directed at his mouth, before they flick up to meet his in a gaze that is all at once anxious and desperate and morose and confused. The hurricane of emotion almost makes him feel _sorry_ for kissing her–but only _almost_ because it is hard to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of her breath on his mouth, her nose sliding against his, and her hands soft on his face.

Then, she closes her eyes and pulls him in, her lips molding to his, and he is instantly at peace with his bold decision, warmth pulsing through his entire being, because _she_ is kissing _him_ –ever a silent force, powerful, commanding, yet tender, in a way that is completely and utterly Mikasa. When her fingers slide into his hair, her mouth moving against his with frantic vigor he can barely keep up with, he can't help but think of how he once didn't care at all for this whole _kissing_ thing and even found it repulsive and disgusting in concept. But now it's all he wants to do, because it's _her_ and it feels _good_ –so good that he slides his hands around her back to pull her even closer–only to be _torn_ from her warmth, when she pushes her palm against his chest, her other hand falling from his hair and resting gingerly on his shoulder.

His mind a jumble of euphoria and frustration, he opens his eyes to the sight of her flushed face, brow wrinkled in thought, her eyes veiled with unshed tears and directed at his chest.

" _Hey,_ " he whispers harshly in panicked confusion, leaning forward, his hands reflexively coming up to cup her face.

"Don't do this," she says in a cracked whisper, as though she is holding back tears. She attempts to shrug further back out of his hold, but he does not let her, his hands remaining affixed to her face as he leans in even further and presses his forehead to hers.

"Don't do _what_?" he asks, confusion only increasing, considering that _she_ had just kissed _him_ , and had seemed more than okay with doing so.

"You _know_ –"

"I _don't_ , so _tell_ me," he urges her, feeling her jaw clench in his hands, the way one does when biting back tears.

There is a prolonged silence as her breathing slows, as they both gather their bearings, the heat of the moment winding down.

Her shoulders slump in defeat, as she refuses to meet his eyes.

"Don't… _pity_ me," she whispers, brow creased into a slight scowl.

" _What?_ " he whispers back incredulously.

"I _know_ you, Eren," she says with a shake of her head, expression troubled as she bows her head to obscure his view of her face. "I might've deluded myself about these things when we were younger, but you've _never_ felt that way about me, and I know that. You just–"

"I _want_ you," he retorts, the words tumbling from his lips with startling ease before he can catch them, even though just moments ago he was physically incapable of uttering them. In response, he feels her stiffen considerably beneath him.

"No, I _know_ you," she repeats firmly, shaking her head more emphatically, a tear trailing down her face, the image stabbing at his heart.

She lifts a hand to wipe the tear away, fixing her brow back into a stubborn scowl.

"You think you feel this way because you care about me–and, well, you may not be _nice_ , but you're _kind_ , and–"

" _I want you_ ," he says again, slower, words drawn out as he tilts her face up to force her to look him in the eye. When she finally does, her expression is both defiant and helpless, eyes glossed over, and his heart _aches_.

"And the… _stuff_ –all the stuff you said you wanted, too," he adds on softly, and she looks confused only for a split second, until the sudden wide-eyed shock on her face signifies her understanding of the _stuff_ , fresh tears immediately springing to her eyes.

She grabs a hand he has on her cheek, meaning to pry it off as she shakes her head in exhaustion.

"No," she repeats defeatedly, now as though she is trying to convince herself, her eyes downcast once more, and his irritation flares at the stubborn denial despite his very best efforts to be honest and convey all that he felt. "You–"

His frustration gets the better of him, because his mouth is on hers again. This time, she is completely still against him, her grip on his hand slackening _slowly_ , the salt of her fresh tears tasted on his tongue. He slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her closer in a plea of _'please believe me'_ , and in a slow, borderline morose acquiescence, she begins to return his kiss, her shoulders beginning to slump in a _'no… maybe… perhaps'_ , and it is not _enough_ for him, because she is still hesitant and not at all the firecracker that had stung his lips and set his body ablaze just moments ago.

' _Prove it prove it prove it_ ,' is what her stiff limbs taunt, what the uncertainty in her kiss conveys, and because Eren Jaeger _loves_ a challenge, he grips her silk raven locks and pushes his tongue into her parted lips, to _prove it_. Then, he decides it _must_ be working at least a little bit because she is beginning to slouch into his embrace, despite the unrelenting stream of tears dampening their kiss.

So he pushes further, to prove it _more_ , and pulls back, his eyes fluttering open to peer down at the parted, wet, swollen pink lips that are hovering over his. Purely by some instinctual pull, he presses a chaste kiss to them, before pressing another beneath her lips, his eyes sliding shut as he presses another to her chin and another and another and another ever so gently down the soft curve of her jawline–

"St– _ah_ … _"_

–the resistance in her throat dying into a gentle gasp as his lips blaze a trail of fire down the warm flesh of her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, tongue flicking out onto the hot salt of her skin, something between a gasp and a moan fighting its way out from the back of her throat as she cranes her neck to give him more access.

Emboldened by her silent submission, he nuzzles the crook of her neck and suckles the soft flesh, a shaky exhale bursting from the back of her throat, and she is _melting_ in his arms as she slides a hand around his back to grasp at his shirt. He kisses up and down her neck, then strips her shoulder bare, peeling her shirt's collar back, along with her bra strap, as he trails kisses across her shoulder, right to the very end, then back up again, punctuating the trail with a single kiss to her neck, as she slides a hand into the thick of his hair.

He pauses there, pulling her into an embrace, brow knit in frustration, face hot from their shared warmth and his own boldness.

"Why won't you believe me?" he mutters against her skin.

She shifts the hand she has nestled in his locks to cup his cheek, and he pulls back just enough to be able to look into her dazed, grey blues, about to verbally insist that he _wants_ her, once again.

But then, he forgets how to speak once met with titillating sight of her rose-tinged cheeks, her bra strap dangling off of her shoulder, her sleeve pushed halfway down her arm, a significant amount of snow white flesh exposed, and swelling pink where his teeth and lips insistently roamed.

A few seconds pass, and she does not reply, merely staring at him, hand sliding from his face to his shoulder, perhaps trying to process what has just happened.

"Tell me… what I have to do," he manages to muster, as she maintains her silence, staring at him in deep contemplation.

In her silence, he finds his gaze dropping down to her exposed skin every few seconds. Unnerved at his own newfound fascination with the imagery of her partially removed shirt, he begins to tug at her shirt sleeve to cover up her skin once more, in an attempt to seem less perverse and maintain some semblance of respect–until she halts him, with a hand on his wrist.

He then looks back up to find her eyes resolute, expression dark, his own eyes widening slightly in subdued puzzlement.

Then, she leans closer and dims his world completely with the push of her lips against his, the kiss rapidly ascending into utmost fervor as she pushes forward and forcefully tugs his wrist downward, urging him to peel the rest of her sleeve off. He has half a mind to resist, but then she has his bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue flicking at it in a prolonged tug, and he decides that he must strip her _faster_. And so he does, shoving the sleeve off, before shoving the rest of her shirt off, greedily smoothing his palms back up over her firm, velvet skin.

Out of breath, his heart pounding hard, he pulls back briefly to open his eyes into hers, and he is unsure of whether he is more nervous or aroused at how they have darkened, and how they burn into him with all the intensity she possessed when zoning in on a target on the battlefield. But then, she presses her palms down roughly onto his shoulders and begins to crawl onto his lap, and he decides it's _aroused_ , because she has him kicking his shoes off in eager accommodation of the unspoken command, eyes locked onto hers as she straddles him, her heavy, _heavy_ weight resting on his thighs as she sinks her fingers into his hair, roughly gripping at the tousled locks to tilt his head up to hers, capturing his mouth in an invasive kiss, and _god,_ it is like a dream–in fact it _was_ a dream–but, he finds himself thinking that she is better than anything he could have ever dreamt up, because her tongue is hot on his, weight bearing down on him in a way that makes him wrap his arms around her bare skin tighter, makes all the blood rush south, and makes him eagerly return her kiss as though she is his source of air.

Palm _soft_ on his body, she glides a hand up his abs, his shirt riding up on her wrist, and he hisses as she halts the kiss and presses her forehead to his, nose turning against his as her fingers reach his chest.

"Take this off," she breathes onto his mouth, in effect worsening the ache in his pants.

"Please," she adds, always so polite, even though she is sliding her thumb over his nipple, and he has to wonder how on earth the _real thing_ is even more of a minx than the Mikasa of his dreams–but then he is not sure why he is surprised because Mikasa Ackerman always exceeded expectation in all she did.

Breathing hard against her, he moves to pull his shirt off the rest of the way, only to have her tug it over his head and toss it away herself.

Then she is kissing him again, pressed flush against him, her skin hot and soft between the rough cloth of her bra and her bandages, sticking to his wherever exposed. She smooths a hand up and down his bare upper back, her hand gripping his hair _harder_ –until, suddenly, her hands aren't on him at all and there is the sensation of cloth sliding between them, slight rugburn felt on his chest, but immediately forgotten because then there is _nothing_ between them, her chest pressed _flush_ against his skin, bare and soft and lithe, unlike any other part of her otherwise firm body.

His face is on fire and all the blood is rushing south and he is _aching_ , and he knows he should pull away and tell her ' _you did not have to do that, we do not have to do anything_ ,' but he instead runs his palms over the smooth, newly bare region of her back, his arms cinching _tighter_ around her waist, inadvertently causing her to shift further up his lap, her crotch now pressed firmly against the tent in his pants.

Too abruptly, she breaks the kiss, and Eren's eyes flutter open in a daze, to find her face flushed and equally dazed, face tinged with a mix of surprise and concern.

"Your…" she trails off, and by the sheer embarrassment on her face and the way his own face burns in response, he knows exactly what she is referring to.

"Oh. Yeah… sorry," he mutters, eyes dropping down in embarrassment–only to catch his first full view of her bare breasts, at which his eyes widen and immediately flick back up to her face, his ears and cheeks now aflame.

She, too, looks sheepish, shyness taking place of the salacious haze in her charcoal blues, and suddenly it is as though they were not undressing one another, and did not have their tongues jammed down each other's throats, just a moment ago.

"No, I mean, is it–it's okay?" she clarifies, blinking down at him, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

He stares blankly at her, trying to decipher her question–until it dawns on him that, for all the natural skill she seemed to have with their activities, she is _clueless_.

His mouth hangs agape, prompting her face to redden in response. Immediately, she averts her gaze, and he must withhold his amusement as he brings up a hand up to smooth over her upper arm.

"Yeah," he assures her, nodding slowly, wondering why his heart feels so incredibly full as he stares up at his oblivious companion, and wondering why he finds her lack of knowledge on such matters so _endearing_ –not that he was an expert, by any means, as anything he knew on the subject, he'd heard passively, and against his will, in excruciating detail.

"It, uh… it happens when it's… touched a lot…" he flounders for words, wanting to implode at the strange word choice.

"Oh," she says with a nod, seeming genuinely interested.

"Yeah–I mean, also other times, but mostly during stuff like… well, _this_."

"Oh," she nods again thoughtfully. "Like, kissing and–?"

"Yeah, like–yes."

"So it doesn't hurt?"

" _No_ , no."

"Oh," she says once more, her shoulders slumping in relief. "I thought it was getting that way because I was sitting on it and it was hurting you–"

" _No_ , if it gets that way, it's 'cause it… feels good," he says firmly, face growing hot at his incomplete, yet sufficient, explanation.

"Oh," she says with another nod.

With the silence that ensues, how far things had escalated begins to sink in.

They had been at each other and _on_ each other, eagerly undressing one another, unwilling to part mouths for more than a few seconds. And suddenly, they had devolved back into a pair of sheepish and prudish youths–which was a more fitting designation, since they two were the _least_ expected to partake in such activities amongst their comrades.

But then, he decides that this is different, and the feel of her skin on his, and the push of his mouth on hers, could not simply be reduced to some forbidden fantasy come true, or a mere submission into some hormonal urge.

He was incredibly inarticulate when it came to matters of the heart, and touch served to convey all that he could not say. Touch was the language they both understood best, _'I want you', 'I need you', 'I trust you',_ and _'this is for you, only you',_ told in kisses and skin on skin and shared, drunken gazes.

And so, he continues to touch her, his fingertips beginning to run up the bumps of her spine as he stares up into her eyes, which gaze back into his curiously and observantly.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to her collarbone, and another to her neck, chaste and so tender that he feels her skin prickle in response, about to trail another up her neck–but then his chin is suddenly jammed into the crook of her neck, when she pulls him into a tight embrace.

After he registers the sudden movement, he closes his eyes, arms cinching tighter around her waist, as he sighs at the sensation of her warm skin on his, and her fingers combing through his hair, lulling him into an incredibly rare sense of contentment.

Then she wriggles her hips slightly, in what he first assumes is an attempt to adjust her position on his lap.

But then, she _continues_ to move, her clothed heat pushing insistently against his crotch, the cloth of her flimsy underwear, and his thin pajamas the only barrier between them.

He does not bother to pose a question at the deliberate, languid, stir of her hips against his, and instead welcomes the sensation, his eyes remaining closed, the steady rhythm of his breath growing more and more syncopated as the blood begins to rush back downwards. He turns his cheek into her neck as he holds her closer, senses heightened at the feel of her hot breath in his ear.

"Is that good?" she whispers.

' _Oh my fucking fuck.'_

A shiver jolts his spine, and he lets out a weak, shuddery exhale before pulling back to be met with a charcoal blue smolder that makes his stomach flutter violently.

"Yeah," he breathes, her mouth hovering over his as they stare at one another, caught in a shared, drunken daze.

And together they move, his hips grinding up into her heat as she licks his bottom lip, beckoning his mouth open until he darts his tongue out to tease hers back, and he lets himself wonder how the _hell_ they had the capacity to be so _lewd_ , before he presses his mouth to hers once more, all the while smoothing a hand up her thigh and bunching her skirt in a fist, wondering what could _possibly_ come next. And, as though she has read his mind, her fingers begin to fumble at the waistband of his pants–immediately putting him on the defensive as he grabs her wrist, and presses his hips up, pushing forward with a grunt, her body bouncing against the mattress with a thud, grey blues startled, as her back hits the sheets. Caught in a mix of competitiveness, and his desire to please and _give_ rather than receive, he crawls above her, spreading her legs with his knees as he descends upon her in an eager kiss, before working his way down her body, littering kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and down the valley between her breasts, then trailing his tongue up the curve of her breast. She hisses as he runs his tongue _slowly_ over her nipple, winding a circle around the firm nub, before taking it into his mouth, her fingers immediately fisting in his hair and holding him there against her, his ego swelling at the sound of her labored breathing and restricted moans, her body writhing under the swirl of his tongue the gentle grope of his fingers.

Emboldened by her reactions, he smooths his hand over her abdomen, down and _down,_ pulling up her skirt, two fingers rubbing at the dampened patch of cloth between her legs, trailing up to tug at the waistband of her undergarments, the coarse tuft of hair felt on the backs of his fingers as he tugs the flimsy cloth _downward_.

But then, despite the fact that his mind is hazed with a primal and insatiable hunger, the now miniscule rational part of his brain calls his attention, bringing to light the possibility that she might _not_ want to go any further. Almost immediately, his concerns are put to rest when she grabs his wrist and drags his hand down into her underwear, fingers brushing past the coarse patch of hair, where it is wet and hot, sending his face aflame, as though he hadn't been pressing his fingers to that very region a few moments ago.

He can hear himself breathing hard, face burning as he runs his fingers against her slick, hot folds. He then slides a finger in with ease, and she tilts her hips up to his aid, hand still guiding his wrist as she writhes against him. At first moving cautiously, he lets her take full control, feeling the ache in his pants begin to worsen at the sight of her rosebud lips agape, fine, raven eyebrows raised in helplessness, breath shallowing, moans cutting off at the back of her throat, half-lidded eyes on his as she uses him to pleasure herself. His own breathing shallows and he decides he can't get enough of the sight, so he pushes another finger in _slowly_ , watching her gasp as her tight heat stretches around his fingers. Then he begins to increase his pace, moving in a way that has her grip on his wrist slackening, has her breathing quickening, the plush heat his fingers are churning growing even _wetter_ as he moves. At the mere sight and _feel_ of her, and knowing the image beneath him is _his_ doing, all the blood rapidly rushes south, his ache beginning to swell _visibly_ –which she so _kindly_ takes note of, as she reaches down to rub through through the thin cloth of his pants, his length hardening beneath her touch.

He hisses and all too quickly and withdraws his fingers from her slit, sitting back on his heels to roughly tug off her skirt, and she does not protest–does not utter a single word when he pulls the only piece of cloth left on her body down her legs roughly, before tossing it aside.

Mikasa's hesitance only comes when he shifts further down on the bed and hoists her thighs onto his shoulders, as he presses open mouthed kisses up her inner thigh–up and up, his tongue swirling at the space between her thigh and her crotch, up and up, prompting a shaky and hesitant, " _Ere_ –"

She gasps sharply as he dips his tongue into her heat, and it is _intoxicating_ –her scent, the taste of her wet flesh on his tongue, her fingers grasping his hair. For once he is glad for the lecherous bunker talk he had involuntarily tuned into, because he is running his tongue over all the right places, focusing _there_ –that apparently sensitive place that makes her gasp over and over again, makes her hips writhe under his mouth, makes her moans come out throaty and full, makes her hand fist in the sheets–makes his own libido spike _dangerously_. He allows himself a glance up at her, and he cannot even see her face, her head rearing back into her pillow, chin up, face to the ceiling. He can't help his satisfaction at the sight, and the fact that _he_ is the one responsible for reducing one of humanity's most powerful warriors to _this_. It feeds his desire to please _more_ , his tongue flicking over the sensitive region over and over, faster, her entire body beginning to tense and tense–until her body shudders and jolts sharply, a muffled, yet throaty moan filling his ears.

Slight panic takes over as her limbs slacken completely, and he whips his head up to the concerning sight of her panting, and biting into her own forearm.

"Are you okay?" he queries, eyes widening as he rises onto his knees to get a better look at her, while absently wiping away the traces of _her_ all over the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand.

She continues to breathe heavily as she removes her arm from her mouth, exhausted, half-lidded eyes finally meeting his as she nods at him, apparently incapable of speech.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks dejectedly as her breathing begins to slow.

" _No,_ " she replies with wide eyes as she shakes her head. "It felt really–it was _good_. My mind just… went blank?" she says, a query in her statement.

"Oh," he says with a nod, realization dawning on him at the description, his ego flaring considerably, ears burning. "Well, that's good."

"That's supposed to happen?" she blinks confusedly up at him, her face flushed, likely from both the physical activity, and her lack of knowledge in the area, and it is _endearing_.

"That's the idea," he murmurs, his face and heart warm as he slumps onto his side next to her, and bends forward to press a chaste kiss to her mouth, unsure of whether she is alright with kissing him when he has _her_ on his tongue. But, it doesn't seem to be a problem, as she forcibly pulls him down to deepen the kiss, sending away the innocent Mikasa of a few seconds ago at the flick of a switch–and she is long gone when she breaks the lock only briefly to utter a breathy command of "Take this off," before resuming the heated kiss and sliding her hand up his still-clothed rigid length, fingers tugging down the waistband of his pants. And _again_ he is like a loyal labrador, quick to obey, the air meeting his exposed skin as he kicks his pants and underwear off. His face then warms in embarrassment, but it is quickly forgotten when he feels her palm smooth down his abs, down and _down_ until she has him in her grip.

At the sensation of her velvet soft hand wrapping around his hardness, his kiss becomes far less focused as he hums into her mouth, hand gripping at her shoulder, his jaw slackening as she gently pumps at his stiff length, thumb smoothing over the moistened head. And then his hips jerk into her hand of their own volition, the cinch of her grip tightening, pace increasing, grip tightening, pace increasing, grip tightening–maybe _too_ tight, and maybe pulling _too_ hard, _WAY_ too hard–

" _AGH!_ "

Eren breaks the kiss abruptly, his mind spinning at the jumble of pleasure and pain. He sits up and rests into a kneel, the pain quickly dissipating as he catches his breath and gathers his composure.

"Sorry! Did I– _sorry!_ " he hears Mikasa's voice, thick with horror and concern. "Are you okay?"

He nods in response, eyes down at his still _relatively_ rigid member, only now realizing how drastic his reaction might have seemed–which had stemmed mostly from the shock of being quite literally yanked from his rapidly heightening pleasure.

When he looks up to assure her as much to allay her concerns, he stops short at the sheer horror on her face, and begins to register the absurdity of the situation.

In her enthusiasm to please, Mikasa had accidently exerted her brute, Ackerman strength on him.

"Eren…?" she calls his name cautiously, maintaining some distance between them as though she might injure him again should she come any closer.

He bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation, because, though he is inexperienced, he is quite certain that risk of dismemberment was not _typical_ in most sexual situations.

Then again, Mikasa was not typical.

"Is it–are you alright?" she cuts into his thoughts again, looking at him as though she actually might have broken him. He maintains his silence, too busy wondering how he could be brimming with even _more_ affection and fondness for her _because_ of the fact that she had nearly torn his manhood off with her superhuman strength.

And then amusement fades to pure warmth as he gazes at her–Mikasa, a fierce warrior who was all at once soft and nurturing and demure and stoic, and blunt and nagging and doting and beautiful and dangerous and synonymous with _home_ ; Mikasa, who was not one for sentimentality unless it involved him; Mikasa, who never let her guard down for anyone or anything, yet was completely bare and vulnerable before him now–save for the bandages she now had to sport because she had nearly _died_ for him.

Inexplicably, he feels his eyes begin to sting.

' _What the fuck?'_ he chastises himself, frowning at the sensation.

"Eren…? I'm–I'm sorry, does it still hurt?" she stammers, gentle urgency in her voice, as she sits up straighter and leans in closer, likely thinking that his eyes are watering because of the non-injury she had inflicted on him moments ago.

He tears his eyes from hers, and they briefly drop down to to take in her nakedness, to sit with the fact that he is also naked, and that they are naked together, completely bare and vulnerable to each other.

And yet, he has never felt more secure and _safe_ in his entire life.

A sense of contentment and overwhelming affection and gratitude washes over him, and he does not know how to grapple with it because it is all so foreign, and his eyes are stinging even more, and he swallows because he is not sure what else to say when he looks into her eyes.

"Eren!" she finally snaps in a harsh whisper, at his non-responsiveness, likely alarmed at the shift in his expression. She sits up on her knees to match his height, placing her hands on either side of his face, her voice heavy with concern.

"Can you talk?"

 _Oh_ , he wants to laugh and kiss her because she is so _serious_ and _clueless_ and convinced that she has broken him.

And he also wants to cry a bit, because he is so incredibly in love with her.

"Do you need ice?"

He blinks down at her, eyes widening, heart beginning to boom in his ears once more.

' _...What?'_

Her face grows even more concerned in response to the more drastic shift in his expression, and she is likely thinking it has something to do with his unscathed biology, when in fact he was just flabbergasted at the fact that he had just used that stupid, stupid word–that word that the teens around him so often used to label the irrational headrush that was supposed to justify their hormone-driven activities.

"Hey…"

And though there was certainly some of _that_ happening at the moment, the word came to mind more to label the intensity of his fondness and caring and admiration for her, because "want"and "need" did not quite cut it.

" _Eren_."

And what scares him the most, is that it had come naturally, without any thought at all.

He scowls down at her, his face on fire, and her eyes grow even _more_ concerned because she hasn't a clue about the bomb he has just internally dropped on himself.

"Okay," she says with finality as she pulls back, "I'm going to get–"

He presses his hands to the backs of hers to keep them on his face, her expression flipping from concern into rose-tinged puzzlement.

"You're never allowed to get hurt, ever, ever again," he says firmly, voice low as he gazes into her eyes intensely, his own eyes still stinging. His heart beats hard in his chest as his fingers curl to grip the strong, velvet soft hands that had killed in his name, and that had held him in his darkest of moments.

" _Ever_ ," he repeats, as he leans forward and bumps his forehead against hers, then pulling back so they are nose at nose and he is scowling down at her in feigned intimidation.

"Do you understand?"

Her surprise melts away slowly as her brow arches, pure emotion fading onto her face.

"Well?" he asks hoarsely, and she nods wordlessly, rapidly, her own eyes glossing over, as she bites at her bottom lip.

Her gaze drops down to his mouth before she pulls him into a kiss that is slow and tender and sends his heart soaring. All the while, she pushes forward and crawls onto him as before, hot flesh sticking to his, the wetness between her legs scattering on his skin as he places his hand on the bandaged small of her back.

It is a slow burn, her lips moving against his with intent, motion of her tongue on his languid as though to savor the moment. Then, her palms are sliding up his torso until they come to a stop on his chest, and she is pushing gently, pressing forward until their mouths are parted, and his back is pressed to the sheets, and she is sitting upright atop his hips. Then his awed emerald greens are peering up at darkened charcoal blues as his breathing labors, his eyes roving up and down her naked body, stomach fluttering violently at the sight of her straddle, the firelight playing shadows on the dips and curves of her muscled, firm flesh. He smooths his hands up her thighs–then, is completely incapable of movement when she grinds her wet heat against him in one languid motion, coating his stiffening manhood in her juices.

He gasps because it feels _too good_ , and unlike anything he has ever felt before, and he knows they should probably stop but _god_ , he doesn't want to, and from the look in her eye and the unrelenting motion of her hips, she doesn't want to either. So he lets her do as she pleases, unable to tear his dumb gaze from the lewd sight of her slick heat _slowly_ grinding against his bare, now incredibly rigid length, and he is certain he looks incredibly stupid and blank, his eyebrows raised helplessly, mouth agape, hissing as he presses his hips up into hers to feel _more_ , eyes sliding shut to drown in the euphoric sensation of her warmth.

Then his jaw slackens completely when he feels her fingers on his shaft, sliding the tip of his already moist member against her sopping wet folds, his eyes shooting back open to the sight of her spreading herself _there_ and lowering herself onto him, _slowly_ , maddened at the sensation of her smoldering, tightwalls sucking him in as he watches himself disappear into her.

" _Fuck_ ," he manages to exhale, staring with unwavering interest and attention, his breathing growing uneven as he watches her sink down and take him in deeper and deeper, feeling her tightness and hotness envelop him completely, his hips rising to push in and drown in her _more_ –eliciting a sharp hiss from her, that draws his eyes back up to her face, which is contorted in pain.

Guilt comes to the forefront, somehow finding its way through the haze of pleasure that has taken over his mind, prompting him to sit up and place his arms around her back.

"You alright?" he whispers up to her, impressed with himself at his ability to form words when his brain was rapidly going out of commission.

Without reply, she places her arms around his neck, legs shifting around him, her eyes closed in concentration as she continues to take him in, face flushed, beautiful, sweat-laced, and all _his_.

He fights hard not to thrust up into her, maintaining his self control, as he feels himself fill her to the hilt. Then he allows himself a brief moment of sentimentality, his pleasure heightened at the fact that it was _her_ , his confidante, protector, and best friend turned-lover, he was with–that two people who only knew the cruelty of the world could find a sense of pleasure, comfort and security in one another.

But then, his ability to think takes a dangerous plunge as she presses her forehead to his and raises her hips slightly, then lowers herself back onto him while stirring her hips, squeezing him within her warmth. He sucks in a breath, pushing up into her as much as possible, wriggling his hips against her, until she is rocking her hips against his on her own rhythm, the tight pressure and heat and slipperiness sending his mind higher, despite the clumsiness of their movements.

And then, ever the fast learner and overachiever, Mikasa pushes her palms against his chest until his back is to the sheets once more, and he is dazed as his eyes flick down to where they are connected, watching her raise her hips, before she lowers and takes him in all the way once more, the rapid friction sending a jolt of pleasure through his body, something between a moan and a gasp involuntarily escaping the back of his throat. And she does it again with precision, faster this time in an unintentional show of her strength as she pushes down onto him harder, the mattress concaving beneath his body with each thrust.

The concentration on her face melts away as she continues to move with more certainty, her eyes closed, mouth agape as she pumps against him with fervor, her pace growing faster, hips beginning to slam into his with a force that rocks the bed frame, and he grits his teeth, the sight filling him with something _feral_ that has him thrusting up to meet her halfway just as she presses down, feeling himself meet the mouth of her womb at the force of his thrust, causing an uninhibited and _loud_ moan to escape her lips, her focused expression shattering completely in surprise, brow raised helplessly, head tossing back and _'god oh god oh god'_ he muses because the sight all on its own is _maddening_ , never mind how _incredible_ she feels, because _he_ did that– _he_ is responsible for that lecherous face, and complete loss of self control and inhibition, and he decides he wants to see _more_.

So he thrusts up again, falling into rhythm with her, the uninhibited pleasure blooming on her face, encouraging him to snap his hips into hers harder, faster–until she slams her hips down definitively to stop his movements completely, taking him in all the way and stirring her hips against his, her walls contracting around him to _squeeze_ him, and he arches his hips to press into her more, to watch her mouth drop open helplessly _more_.

" _Fuck_ ," he lets slip again, now unable to control himself at the sensory overload.

He tugs at her forearms to pull her down, so that she falls forward, the rest of the world disappearing behind the curtain of her short raven hair now edging his periphery, her hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as he places his hands on her hips, bending his knees and planting his feet firmly into the mattress for leverage, now completely in control as he begins to thrust _hard_ into her.

Dazed greens lock onto dazed grey blues, her pink lips parting to let fly a quiet moan with every thrust, their shared, labored breaths, and that _wet_ sound of him moving in and out of her filling the room, her face growing more and more helpless as he increases his pace and the force of his thrusts.

" _E-re-n_ …" his name comes out in broken, throaty syllables as his pleasure begins to spike dangerously, and it's getting to be _too much_ and it feels _too good_ , and he wants _more_ , so he pulls her down and presses his mouth to hers, and he _fucks_ her–pace increasing, arm tightening around her back to pull her flush against him, until he is _slamming_ into her, and she is humming into his mouth.

"I'm…" he tries to speak against her lips, but he has forgotten the entire concept of language as he continues to move, and as she slumps completely onto him, face in the crook of his neck, her moans loud at his ear, and he is on the _edge_ of _something_ , _somethingsomethingsometh_ -

And then he is _gone_ and everything is nothing and his mind is blank, euphoria ripping through his body as he grinds his hips up into hers and spills out into her warmth, an unabashed groan rumbling up from his throat as he twitches into her and squeezes her tighter in his arms.

Then it is over, and he is left high and delerious, and they are an exhausted, panting, sweaty mass of flesh. His eyes flutter open to the ceiling as he eases the pressure of his embrace and catches his breath, then turns his head to look at Mikasa, who, too, is red-faced and breathing heavily.

And though they have just crossed a line impossible to edge back behind, and that all that had been left unsaid has, for all intents and purposes, been communicated, the only words fitting for this moment are still far too embarrassing for him to say.

So he brushes her bangs from her eyes, and presses his lips to hers, wordlessly.

* * *

He had never imagined that an immense sense of peace could be felt at the mere act of gazing upon another's face, or listening to another's breathing.

' _She looks like a fucking painting,'_ he muses as he observes her moonlit face, only mildly irritated at his descent into the sensitive ball of mush that was his dream self.

Then, her eyes flutter open into his, and he feels his face warm immediately in response. Despite his embarrassment, he takes solace in the fact that he had not been saying revealing things _at_ her in her sleep–though he isn't sure what else was left to reveal, considering what had just come to pass.

"Hi," she rasps groggily, the sound, for whatever reason, prodding at his heart and warming him inside and out.

"Hi," he replies curtly, brow knit as he attempts to hide away the embarrassing feelings that are taking over–never mind that they are already naked and had partaken in activities far more embarrassing a little over an hour ago.

And though being intimate in such a way is new, he notes that she has taken to it with far less reservations, her leg sliding between his beneath the sheets.

"You alright?" he asks, resisting the grin that threatens to spread, combatting it with the downward tug of the corners of his lips. Despite his expression, he shifts his leg closer against hers to reciprocate the contact.

She nods, covering her mouth as she yawns, and it is so _cute_ , and his ears warm, his scowl deepening to combat the stupid smile that wants to take over, because he didn't even know such a word was in his vocabulary.

"Mmm. Just a little sore."

"Sorry," he murmurs, running his palm up her forearm.

"No, it's fine," she assures him. "I'm surprised it even fit though."

His face and ears burn even more at the foolish swell of pride brought on by her unintentional compliment. He scoots closer and buries his head in the crook of her neck to obscure her view of his pleased, yet mortified, expression. It takes only a few seconds for him to settle into contentment, her skin warm on his face, as she begins to thread her fingers through his hair.

"Did it hurt a lot?" he murmurs against her neck, sleepiness taking over as she continues to comb her fingers through his hair.

"Not too much. Just in the beginning."

"And then it was okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" he asks, moving back slightly to look up at her.

" _Yes_ ," she assures him, hand halting its ministrations, face flat and not a tinge of embarrassment found. "Most of it felt good."

"Oh," he says quietly, blood rushing back to his face. "Good."

He resumes his place at her neck and lays there against her skin, soothed by the feel of her breathing as she continues to weave her fingers through his hair. It is enough to lull him slowly into darkness, despite his now very off sleeping schedule, until–

"Have you done it before?"

His eyes shoot open.

"Done what?" he murmurs as he shifts back, and scoots further up so his head is resting on the pillow, and he is at eye level with her, her face now effortfully neutral.

"... _This_ ," she asks quietly, prompting his eyes to widen.

" _No,_ " he says firmly. "Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," she says, averting her gaze, expression bashful. "You seemed to know a lot about it."

" _No_ ," he repeats, just as firmly. "I just… knew some stuff from overhearing the perverts I bunked with before."

"Oh," she says with a nod, her relief evident.

"Listen, I… don't look at other people the way I look at you," he says, eyes immediately dropping to her collarbone, face warming at the admission. "So… I _couldn't_ do this kind of thing with anyone else. I wouldn't want to."

She is silent, and he can feel her eyes boring into his head, and all the blood is rushing to his face once more.

"Not even Levi?"

"... _What?_ " he snaps, head shifting up to stare at her deadpan face with wide eyes. "What the hell is the supposed to…?"

But then he registers the amused, crinkle of her eye, and how she bites her bottom lip in an attempt to withhold the slight upturn of the corner of her lips.

"If you're gonna start making jokes, at least make it _look_ like you're making a joke–and make them less disturbing," he says gruffly, fighting his own grin as he watches one take over her mouth.

"Sorry," she says, and it is impossible for him to maintain his disgust at her decidedly odd sense of humor, because the prospect of her making a joke and smiling is so rare.

He savors the moment, staring at her, before shaking his head.

"You're so weird," he mutters, a scowl still on his face as he pushes forward to press a kiss to her mouth, her fingers sinking into his hair and keeping him there against her, as she deepens the kiss.

He sighs into her mouth, feeling her wrap her leg around his to pull him closer, as his hand slides down the velvet soft skin of her back, and he wonders why, oh _why_ it had taken him this long realize how _amazing_ this whole kissing thing was, and how _amazing_ it felt to be naked with and _do_ _things_ with Mikasa.

She pulls back, eyes set on his, and they gaze at one another, settling into a comforting hush once more. As he continues to caress her back, her gaze becomes observant, eyes light in their scrutiny, as she regards him like a child observing a world wonder, filled with awe and question upon question.

"What?" he asks softly, hand coming to a stop on her back.

She blinks back at him, cheeks tinting pink as she shrugs a shoulder. Now that she has brought attention to it, he can't help but run a hand over it, just because he can.

She remains silent as he slides his hand up the slope of her shoulder, her eyes set on his face, attempting to read him once more.

"I'm just not used to getting this kind of attention from you," she finally says, quietly.

He pauses, slightly startled at the statement. He had become so comfortable holding her and being entangled with her in this way that it felt like they had been acting like this for years–forgetting that it was only as recently as last night that he had realized his own stupidity and resolved to act on it.

"I know," he says shamefully, eyes at her chin. "I promise I'll be less stupid from now on."

He runs a hand up her arm, eyes shifting back to hers. Though he had assumed she would happy at his response, he can see the gears turning in her head as she threads together whatever she intends to say.

"You know… you don't have to change," she says quietly, eyes still on his. "You don't have to do anything differently, or act differently."

His hand comes to a stop on her forearm.

"You don't want me to?"

"No–I mean, I don't want you to feel like you have to act a certain way, now that we've–just… I'm okay with whatever you're comfortable with. It's enough to know that you..." she gives pause, staring at him thoughtfully, face beginning to flush.

"... want the stuff?" he finishes for her, now unable to help the grin that spreads on his lips.

"Mmm," she says with a nod, her mouth upturning into a slight smile, and he is _melting_.

"Well," he shifts his gaze back down to her neck, "I kind of like… _this_ ," he mumbles, trying his best to act nonchalant as he feels his own face grow hot. "So. I'd like to keep doing that, if that's okay."

The question is essentially rhetorical, yet there is still a pause that leaves him hanging on edge.

Then he feels her shift closer, feels her hand on his chin, tilting his face up, her gaze still rose-tinged in embarrassment, her eyes locked on his, a distinct certainty to their intensity.

"You can do whatever you want to me," she whispers, a sultry quality to the shyness that pervades her tone, as she shifts her leg between his once more.

Blindsided by the lascivious undertone of her response, his eyes pop wider, stomach fluttering as he feels her palm run down the side of his torso, her gaze expectant.

He swallows.

And then he musters the courage to play along.

"Whatever I want?" he whispers back, as he pushes forward, close enough so his nose brushes hers, and _now_ they are in sync, and on the same playing field.

She nods, and _what a mistake_ he muses, because her coy behavior emboldens him to roughly push into her shoulder, lift a leg and push forward until her back is pressed to the sheets, and she is pinned beneath him.

"Whatever I want?" he asks again, bending forward, pushing her legs open with his knees, one hand sliding up her abdomen, firm until he reaches the plush skin of her breast, thumb circling over a nipple, prompting her mouth to drop open in a gentle gasp, her eyes flicking down to his lips as he flicks his thumb over the hardened nub.

"Yes," she breathes meekly onto his mouth, blinking her half lidded gaze up into his eyes, and he barely has to move at all to press his lips to hers because their faces are already so close. All over again, he is melting at the feel of her soft hands roving around his lower back, one hand sliding down and down until she reaches his ass–giving one cheek a firm squeeze. Blindsided once again, he yelps into her mouth, half tempted to break the kiss abruptly and comment on how strange she is, but he doesn't _dare_ to, when he feels her mouth curl into a smile against his, something that sounds like a _laugh_ humming into his mouth. His heart overflowing with affection and that stupid "L" word once more, he kisses her _full_ and slowly. And again they descend into _more_ as she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in so his hips are pressed flush against hers, and she is _bad_ – _worse_ than he ever imagined his conservative companion could be, because she is wriggling her hips up into his, and his blood is rushing south once more, and she is snaking down a hand between them–when his stomach gives an unapologetically loud gurgle.

The two freeze mid-kiss, her hand never quite making it to its intended destination. Eren squeezes his eyes shut, mortified at the interruption, and breaks the kiss, blinking his eyes open into a pair of amused grey blues.

"Hungry?" she queries, replacing her hands on his lower back, the nature of her caress now more sympathetic than the sensual groping from just moments ago.

His stomach answers on his behalf, growling once more.

"A little," he says, realizing that he hasn't eaten for the past twenty-four hours. "Haven't eaten since yesterday."

Mikasa narrows her eyes, and he flinches at the sudden and drastic shift in mood.

"You _what_?"

He swallows.

* * *

The oil lantern hanging from her grip illuminates the darkened path, their footfalls gentle and cautious as they traverse the winding halls.

She nearly jumps when he reaches for her hand, her cheeks tinting pink, expression inquisitive as he returns it with his own equally pink scowl.

They remain linked until they reach the eerily dark kitchen, illuminated only by the lantern in Mikasa's grasp. She sets the lantern down on the center island which casts the span of the dim light wider, the scant sliver of moonlight peeking in through the window the only other source of light. In a daze, finally _fully_ feeling his exhaustion, he leans back against a counter, watching passively as she begins to poke around the kitchen.

It is after a little while that she returns to him with a small roll of bread, a sense of nostalgia instantly ripping through him.

"This is the only thing we have a surplus of at the moment. They'll notice the supply change if I try to make anything right now," she says lifting the bread slightly for him to take it from her grasp.

He does not reach for it, instead blinking down at it thoughtfully.

While he had certainly eaten equally uninteresting rolls of bread since the moment she had force fed one to him about a decade ago, in this particular moment, the little roll served as another reminder of how she had _made_ him survive through the years, only further solidifying his… "L" word for her.

Shaking himself out of his trance, he realizes that she must think he is completely out of it, or at least _really_ hungry if he was staring at a piece of bread with such emotion in his eyes.

He raises a hand to pull it from her grasp–only to have her suddenly press the roll to his lips.

Now all he can do is stare down at her hand, lips pursing beneath the bread roll, his throat beginning to close, eyes beginning to stupidly sting in the stupid way that they do, as he meets her eyes, which are filled with understanding, her cheeks tinted pink once more, and he need say nothing more to communicate his thoughts, because she _knew_ , just as she always did, without him having to say a word.

He snatches the bread from her hand, and presses a firm kiss to her mouth, not fully backing away.

"Thank you," he says, following it up with another kiss, the words encompassing far more than the little roll of bread in his hand.

"Mmm," she replies shyly as she backs away.

He bites into his bread as she rounds the island to grab the lantern.

"That Levi joke you made earlier by the way–pretty fucked up," he begins, in an attempt to lighten the mood, mouth full of bread as she walks towards him.

Her face remains flat, and serious.

"... that _was_ a _joke_ , right?"

She looks at him, expression unchanging as she walks towards the archway.

"Well, I don't know. You _did_ used to look at him weird."

" _What_?!" he whispers harshly through the bread in his mouth as he jogs to catch up to her.

And as he continues to defend his admiration of their leader in their younger days in harsh whispers, he slides a hand into hers, her fingers immediately curling to reciprocate the grip–her flat expression breaking, lips twitching into amused grin every few seconds.

He finds himself continuing to rant foolishly, for the sole purpose of bringing about that very sight.

* * *

Eventually, they fall into silence so he can scarf down his bread in record time–after which he is left to silently dread their temporary goodbye until morning.

But once they reach their destination, Mikasa only tightens her grip on his hand, dragging him through her threshold, and releasing his hand to shut and lock the door.

She strides over to her bedside to put the oil lantern back in its place, before walking back over to him.

"It's late– _early_ –I actually don't know," he begins dejectedly, knowing he should take leave before he loses his will to do so. He did not wish to find out what sort of disciplinary action might be taken, should they get caught–never mind the stares they would receive from their comrades if he was caught sneaking out of her room in the morning.

But, she says nothing, fingers already tugging the bottom of his shirt up.

" _Mikasa_ ," he hisses in chastisement, face warming already, though he lets her remove his shirt and toss it across his room, the stirring in his pants already commencing despite his protestation. "We can't… "

He pauses as she undoes her buttons, this time, giving way to her bare chest, no bra in sight.

"Yes?" she asks, so nonchalantly that he has to wonder if she _knows_ the effect she is having on him. But, by the time she pushes the last button free, he figures that it doesn't matter, because he _lets_ her know, shoving her shirt off the rest of the way before he presses his mouth to hers and pushes his tongue into her mouth, feeling her claw at the waistband of his pants as he kisses her all the way to the bed, pushing her down into the sheets, hands eagerly working to tear off her remaining clothing once more.

"I should go back soon," he exhales, pinning his knee between her legs as he pushes her further back up the bed.

"You should," she agrees, pulling him down into a kiss, tugging his pants and underwear down so his growing excitement is exposed once more.

"After this," he says as he kicks his pants off the rest of the way, and she hooks a leg around his waist, and pulls him down by the hair.

"After this," she repeats in agreement before pressing her mouth to his, hand running over his bare length.

"I gotta go back after this," he says again, though he barely remembers uttering the phrase when she spreads her legs and tilts her hips up into his in invitation, raven hair fanning on the sheets, eyes half lidded. His stomach flips at the sight as he presses his mouth to hers and pushes forward to drown in her warmth once more, lost to the sensation of her skin and her lips and her fingernails digging into his back as he moves against her.

"You should," she hisses into his ear, syllables broken up by the rhythmic jolt of his hips.

He bends forward to kiss her once more, whatever he "should" be doing already long forgotten.

* * *

**THE END.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this fic, and waited so very patiently for this update. A special thank you to those who left thoughtful reviews, and to the select few who have so graciously listened to me vent about it over these past few months (esp. to the particular person who has received most of this venting, you know who you are). With all that has been happening in my life outside of the internets, you are the main reason I was able to push through, and felt accountable to finish this fic.
> 
> Writing this final part drove me crazy. The idea for Touch came from the desire to write something emotional and raw, that transitioned into endearingly awkward, and somewhat pure, first time, in-character, Eremika smut, that could potentially fit into canon. That said, I had no idea how difficult it would be to make a confession and a love scene happen organically. We're talking about two inexperienced young adults who barely ever speak of such things, and pulling a confession of love out of a boy who doesn't appear to have a romantic bone in his body. The last thing I wanted to do was butcher their characters, and devolve into anything too cliche or sugary sweet, and at the end of it all, I wanted you to believe that the people in this story were undeniably Eren Jaeger and Mikasa Ackerman. Trying to accomplish that landed me in a writing process that spanned months, which consisted of an entire scrapped 16,000 word draft, late weeknights, bursts of inspiration, then periods of anxious procrastination, then the writing of scenes you'll never even read, re-writing scenes to death, and generally just countless revisions to the work you have just read. All this tireless work has leant itself to the goal of writing an experience, and little moments and exchanges, that stayed true to the essence of Eren and Mikasa. I hope I that shone through here, and that I was able to do their characters justice.
> 
> Because I don't want to overdo this closing author's note, I will have a rambley blog post up on my tumblr (a-heartablaze) discussing my take on Eremika in the story, some of the writing process, and a response to a couple of reviews, if you care to read more on that kind of thing. Within that post, there will also be a summary of the epilogue I had originally intended to write. The post should be up by the end of the week.
> 
> Anyway, writing this story has been quite a ride. I died many times writing this fic, but, as a hopeless romantic, fangirl, and over-analytical writer (who thinks many unclean thoughts), it's been a pleasure giving these two wonderful, angst-ridden characters some light, while delving into the complexities of their unique relationship, and exploring the beauty that can grow from what already exists between them. I hope we get a chance to see some of that in-canon (probs not the smut, though that would be cool too), but if not, I hope you enjoyed my take on what could be.
> 
> I sincerely hope you have enjoyed this, and once again, thank you so much for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> This took way too long too finish. Sigh. Anyway, hope you enjoyed oblivious!Eren and halfdeadyettakecharge!Mikasa.
> 
> Next chapter will contain smut.
> 
> Please do leave feedback on your way out. Would love to hear your thoughts :)


End file.
